When In Hell, Do as the Demons' Do!
by KayMoon24
Summary: A horrid illness suddenly striking him, Watson locks himself away in his room. Holmes thinks nothing out the ordinary- until a high fever strikes the good doctor, and war-delusions occur. Now, Holmes is not only fighting for Watson's life- but his own!
1. Chapter One

**~*When in Hell, Do as the Demons' Do*~**

**~*The Chapter Where Gladstone Makes A Right Fool Out of Everybody!*~**

It was heavily raining outside when Dr. Watson finally returned home to his flat in 211 B Baker Street. This type of weather for the doctor was most unfortunate however, for it always caused his old wounds to ache and worry him about. Of course, coming home to his unusually eccentric roommate when he was already smarting, was nothing sort of the greatest of annoyances. Watson was just taking off his drenched coat to hang it upon the staff in the hall, when the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, came huffing towards him.

"That's it! That is _it!_ I've had it! I'm going out!" She quickly ripped Watson's coat out of his hands and began to put it on in a mad fury; her brown hair wiry and her dress wrinkled. Thoroughly alarmed, the doctor tried to reason with her but before he knew it, she had taken the hat from atop his head and put it on.

"B-but, Mrs. Hudson, it's pouring outside- you'll catch your death!" He did his best to politely take his dripping coat back but the scorned woman would not budge. She threw open the ornate wooden door. Suddenly she stopped and quickly turned back to the anxious doctor and spoke strongly over the sound of thunderous rain.

"Doctor Watson, I respect your observations to this maddening day but I'll tell you alittle something. I'd rather catch my _death_, than spend a minute longer in this house with that- that- _man!"_ Her brown eyes blazing, she glared deep into the shadows of the house and then quickly stepped out into the storm. She muttered a muted 'good-bye' to her friend and disappeared into the mist. Watson shut the door as gently as he could. He was beginning to think all this yelling and thunder was giving him a headache- and a rather bad one at that.

He limped slowly through the hall, entering into the sitting room, although it was extremely hard to navigate- it was nearly pitch black everywhere Watson strained to look. Suddenly to his greatest surprise, something large and dense caught on his supporting foot and he fell facedown, (Thankfully, he thought to himself!) onto the pillows of the couch. For once however, he did not mind the utter darkness. It felt good to his eyes. _Maybe Holmes was right about the light,_ Watson ponderously to himself as he laid in the darkness and quiet…then his good luck vanished as the unmistakable tone of Sherlock Holmes filled the room.

"Watson? Is that you? Wonderful, wonderful old boy, I was just-" Holmes was cut off by an abruptly loud din filling the closed space as he tripped over what may have likely tripped up Watson himself- and he landed on the seat next to the agitated doctor.

"Gladstone! Damn dog," Sherlock Holmes cursed, his dark eyes tracing the dark floor for a glimpse of the bulldog. "I swear Watson, we've got to get a bell on him or something," Holmes then waved his hands, pushing away the idea for now. "Anyway, I was just working on a way to drive the internal nanny harpy from our establishment- and I think I've reached it." He motioned in the dim light to the bow and violin in his hand. Holmes slowly moved it up to proper player's position and guided the bow roughly across the strings, creating a horrible, high pitched sound.

"You see!" Holmes cried, as he continued to play miserably. "I've found that if I continue playing this one note for a long period of time, it'll make the old bat leave! I've been playing for nearly all day!" Watson flinched into the pillows as the sound struck his eardrums, making him feel even more ill in his head. He rubbed his pointer fingers along his throbbing temples, gritting his teeth, taking deep breaths- Watson so hated when Holmes spoke of Mrs. Hudson in such a manner. She did more for the reclusive detective than he'll ever come to know.

"Holmes, that's no way to talk of Mrs. Hudson. She's a delightful lady- and besides, she's gone." Holmes eyes' lit up upon hearing his new experiment worked, and he continued joyfully- still playing.

"She is? Oh _fantastic!_ I was beginning to think it was only in my head..." He smiled a rare smile here- "Music to celebrate by, my dear fellow?" Suddenly the high pitched tune changed into a loud, jubilant melody. Watson's left eye twitched. He groaned softly into the pillow. _Great, simply fantastic, indeed._

"Holmes, I'm not feeling rather well tonight, so I'd greatly appreciate it if I could spend some time in silence." Watson pulled himself upright- studying his brooding friend who simply continued to play- his head nodding in recognition.

"Alright, well, if you've no pleasure to talk, than we shan't." Said Holmes, as he continued picking up his tune into a softer song, and closing his eyes to enjoy the music more deeply. Watson nearly yelled- was it _this_ hard to get through to him? His poor nerves couldn't even take soft music. Suddenly Watson uncharacteristically reached out, and grasped Holmes' bow, pulling it from his hand. The detective's alarmed eyes popped back open.

"Please. Complete. Silence." Watson said, enunciating each word slowly and properly so that smartest man in London would understand. Sherlock's dark eyes flashed angrily and he turned away like a chided child, snatching the bow back from Watson's hand.

"Too ill even for music, eh? Well then Watson, I think you're mistaking my ability in song! You see if I've found a note that will drive nanny away, then perhaps this violin works rather like a dog whistle, and if I play, it will bring your good, _delightful_ nanny back to take care of you." Sherlock huffed.

Watson simply turned away to stare into the smoldering fireplace. It had very little life left in it and hardly gave the room any light- but Watson still found it was horribly hot under his collar. He stood up to fetch the water pail to douse out the embers, but the room tiled at some odd degree. He slowed down_. Must have just gotten up too quickly,_ Watson added to himself. He limped over to the fire and reached for the pail-

"What _are_ you doing?" Holmes asked from the couch, his head cocked at the same degree that Gladstone usually used for when women came to visit the flat and talked to him in a high pitched voice; cooing over how cute he is. Watson put out the fire- but he was now self-aware of his own perspiration. He turned back to his questioning roommate.

"Putting out the fire Holmes- isn't it dreadfully hot in here to you?" Holmes studied his friend curiously. _Hot? It's extremely dreary outside and the temperature in the flat has been dropping for hours,_ he pondered to himself. _Perhaps Watson isn't just in a foul mood today. Maybe something is rather… wrong._

"Well, if you say Watson,-" Sherlock commented from the couch, "But I say it's rather cold in here." Watson's right eye twitched now, and he turned around again, only to find that he had inhaled some of the smoke from the fireplace that turned into a painful coughing fit. Once it had finished, Watson hadn't the nerve to turn back around, and instead let the better of his worst thoughts get to him_. Well, of course it's cold in here to you Holmes, you're a generally cold person._ Suddenly, for once, it was very quiet in the room.

"You think I'm a rather cold person?" Holmes asked quietly from his spot. _Wait- what? But I.._

Watson jumped as he turned back around, completely alarmed.

"But- I, oh..oh Holmes, I'm terribly sorry, I..I'm just not myself tonight. It's these blasted nerves." Watson chuckled a little. "I'm having a hard time distinguishing what's _real_ to what's just in my own _head."_ During the time of his short little speech, Sherlock Holmes' gears were turning in his skull.

_Eye twitches- contributing to neck muscles tightening and fatigue, leading to unmistakable headache. Bloodshot, puffy eyes- lack of utter sleep and possibly allergies- though, curious, I don't believe Watson's been allergic to anything but pollen, and it's no where near summer. From the way he's holding himself I'd say his shoulder and leg are acting up again- generally in wet weather- per usual, but it seems tenderer. Closer inspection of the head; eyes show cloudiness. Perspiration of the cheeks and hair, slight flush- fever?_ Finally, the deceive spoke.

"You're sweating." Watson's hair on the back of his neck rose in anger and embarrassment. _No! He can't possibly see that too!_

"Wait- wha? Holmes! Are you even _listening?_ I'm trying to apologize!" He gritted his teeth to stop from yelling more. Holmes shifted his hand to under his chin. _Hmm…gritted teeth..I wonder…what that means.._

"And wheezing." The detective added. Watson threw his arms in the air in compete anguish, his worse side getting the better of him once more.

"You, are, _insufferable_ Holmes!" Watson quickly made his way over to his bedroom's mahogany door. "I am retiring early- and if you shall need me I shall be in here."

He placed his hand on the brass knob- the coldness from it sending a shock through his ridiculously hot body making him shiver. He thought of staying there longer- perhaps that, and calming down would stop his sudden decline in health. _Chills_, Sherlock Holmes remarked, _he needs to sleep and not stand there like a fool._

Holmes simply picked up his bow again, and looked at his shaking roommate. "So..no music then?" Watson's mustache twitched and his teeth gritted once more, and he entered his room, slamming the door. Holmes started to play softly, contemplating.

_Ahh. Anger._ The detective concluded as the wind picked up outside, and the storm raged on. _Gritted teeth means __anger__._

Upon the time of exactly four hours later, just as the midnight clock was striking, Mrs. Hudson, thoroughly wet and disheveled, entered back into 211B. She was still quite angry at the notion of having to return home, but alas, at least it wasn't as cold as it was outside. She shrugged off Mr. Watson's coat, and carefully hung it over the hearth, just before lilting it back up. Taking a step backwards to start to clean the living room, she spied a bundled up heap on the couch.

_Gladstone. That silly dog._ The landlady thought to herself, as she made her way through the flickering darkness. _I thought Dr. Watson had better trained him by now not to mark up the pillows. _Just as she just reached the lump, something large and furry caught her foot and she tousled onto the blankets- which to her surprised let out a horridly surprised yell! Both Mrs. Hudson and the mess let out furious sounds as they rolled off the furniture and onto the floor, quickly pulling apart. An alarmed, and sheepishly grinning detective poked his head up from amongst the blankets.

"My dear Nanny, if you've wish'd a blanket- you could have simply _asked."_

_"GOD!"_ Mrs. Hudson screamed, one hand on her chest to stop her heart from barreling through it. "Mr. Holmes! You'll be the _death_ of me one day!" Sherlock Holmes, wide eyed and tangled in the mess of his own body, replied:

"As you'll be mine Nanny, as you'll be _mine!"_ He waved away at her. He quickly dug around in the mess alittle, searching for something. Mrs. Hudson paid no mind to this as she straighten herself up and began folding up the sheets along the floor. Then a peculiar thought hit her.

"Mr. Holmes, why are you asleep here?"

"Mm.." Holmes said, still twisting about.."Did you see, I was…I was….the hel- AH! Gladstone! Thanks old boy!" Mrs. Hudson quickly stole a glance and saw Holmes retrieving a hat from the bulldog's mouth, and placed it upon his head. "Much better. Awfully chilly in here. Now, what is it you were asking, Nanny?"

Mrs. Hudson simply rolled her eyes. "I know you heard me."

Holmes arose and sat back down on the couch. "Ah- yes. Well, you see, I found Watson in a rather foul mood during the latter of this evening, and he said he wasn't feeling well.- Took to his room- and so I must've fallen asleep entertaining myself out here,"- he motioned to his instrument laying on cushions- "I found that my playing of the violin made perfect time with the falling of-" Mrs. Hudson quickly interrupted Holmes' rant.

"Dr. Watson isn't well?"

"Eh? Er, yes. I've mulled it over and found he most likely has the common cold."

"And knowing this, you haven't checked on him? Oh dear, and to think I left in such a fuss earlier..." She turned to stare at Watson's door. Holmes simply turned his head to look out the window, huffing. Mrs. Hudson quickly turned back to look at Holmes. "I swear, your cold compassion towards those whom you even regard as friends, is even quite alarming. I'd hate to think what feelings you have towards the criminals and murderers you capture."

Holmes glowered in the shadows, under his hat. _I am not cold!_ Mrs. Hudson quietly made her way to the kitchen.

"I'll make him some warm tea." Now it was Holmes' turn to roll his eyes.

"Yes, because I suppose _tea_ cures everything to you, Nanny." Mrs. Hudson eyes' lit up.

"Yes- well, I suppose it's better than sitting there in your own ice-cold apathy."

"And you'd be the first one to know about how cold things are, you witch. They remark your bre-"

"Hold your tongue you gutterspewing street urchin, or I'll be forced to get the soap!"

They glared at each other for a few moments, the tension rising. Finally it was Holmes to break the silence- anger taking the both of them.

"Batty Old goat!"

"Foolhardy arse!"

Suddenly the loud barking of Gladstone cut them both off. And then all thoughts in the room were focused on only one thing- their yelling and Gladstone's barking waking the resting Watson! Both enemies ran for the dog, '_shush_'ing and '_shooosh_'ing- but it was already too late. Watson's door slowly pulled open, and a very, very pale and angrily agitated Watson stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Evening Mrs. Hudson, Holmes…. Gladstone! Quiet!" –and just like that, the dog was silent. "Now, if you'd both be rather so kind. Be like the dog.- And another thing," Watson said, taking a moment to gasp in a breath of air before he harshly coughed. "Please, don't come in my room until I call, please? Thank you.." and with a sharp thud, the door was shut.

In the heavy silence of the room, Holmes and Mrs. Hudson glared at one another before taking separate ways. One to bed, and the other to clean the rest of the house.


	2. Chapter Two

**~*The Chapter Where Watson Rips The General A New One, As Nanny Does to Holmes*~**

"Mr. Holmes…" a distant, but persistent voice called to Sherlock from some far away place, to which Holmes recognized immediately. _Oh God_, Sherlock thought to himself, slowly and sleepily, refusing to open his eyes. _I'm somehow dead…and the harpy is coming to reap my soul._

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson stood over the cowardice man, hiding in his bed. "Mr. Holmes! It's very important that you come down stairs!" _No!_…Sherlock thought, opening his eyes a-crack to sense the faint light fading over his sheets- which he had pulled high over his head_. It's worse! It's…_

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson quickly drew back his windowed curtains and the dark, damp, and messy tinker-tottered room filled with dawn light. "You _need_ to get up. _Please_." _Morning_. Sherlock lazily thought to himself- his quiet, dark cave of peace shattered.

"Mmm- okay. I'm up. I'm up." Holmes pulled himself out of bed, his bare-feet protesting with the wooden floor and he clumsily followed Mrs. Hudson downstairs- not fully awake, (or more so- trying _not_ to be awake.) They stopped at Watson's door, to which Holmes continued on into the dinning hall that granted in a sight so awful, suddenly his senses awoke and shot the ceiling. "Mrs. Hudson? No _breakfast_? Are you madder than I thought, woman?"

Mrs. Hudson turned worried from Watson's closed door, and glared at Holmes whom shrank back from her stare.

"Alright! Alright!" Sherlock threw his hands up- palms facing outward- in a jester of surrender. "It was a joke love, a joke!"

"Mr. Holmes, I…I'm right hateful of myself to intrude Mr. Watson's privacy, but may you please pick his door..? I…I know he requested no one go in..but…but God, it drives me mad not even having the opportunity to go inside. What if he needs us….." She turned back towards the kitchen. "He's usually up long after this hour- and he hasn't stirred. I'll start breakfast while you-"

Holmes 'hmm'd' to himself as he squatted down to his knees, and pulled out his key-kit, quickly and masteringly opening the dark door as Mr. Hudson prattled on to his ear. She stopped mid-sentence and stared at him, before silently scolding her curiosity. _There is no way I even __begin__ to want to know how he so easily opened that door!_

The two privately went on about their day- though the increasingly anxious fog the hung about the house only grew like the fog outside on the London streets. Mr. Watson never came out of his room. In fact, he didn't even open his door once. Even while Gladstone was padding at it. Although neither of them spoke of it, the tedious, causal, walk-by-the-room- conversation was subconsciously leading to one connected sentence. _Someone had to find out what was going on behind the door!_

Behind the door, Watson lay. Tossing, turning, sweating, swearing- desperate. He prayed that no one would come to open that door. That no one would see him like this. He didn't want to ever have to revel why. _No, no, such things should never be talked about!_

If one were to steal a glance from Watson's anguished form, you would see many pictures lining his room. Some of great water coloured beauty- rushing rivers and wild majestic horses- some more gorey. Flags and guns and war. Behind those portraits, lay holes- no bigger than 3 inches in diameter- but they were there. Like a scar, always there in Watson's mind, engraving itself in worry that someone would find them one day. Watson was already scarred visually enough, couldn't one so easily tell? To bare himself another in the eyes of anyone else- he feared- would cripple him for good. So hidden they must stay.

In Watson's mind however, things were not so simple. As Holmes looked on at the door; and the rest of London moved on with bustling people, and horses, and buildings- Watson found he could finally no longer hear the present world. Sure, at first he could easily hear the fighting's of his roommates and Gladstone- but the noises were so much weaker now, blurring together into sounds he could not make out. Nor did he have the strength to respond in general.

Slowly now, it was just his own mind he looked forward too. Or was it back? The blackness forming images and old haunts he had long past forced out of his mind. London was now nowhere to be known- and he couldn't tell it, but his conscious brain was regressing- _forgetting_- only being filled with memories of the past that melted smoothly into the present of his own, misty, universe of his mind. And then he was there- a younger version of himself, but his subconscious intertwined and he become that man once more- nervous, unsure, and naïve.

He could only walk in one direction into the darkness, which was misty, and hot, and suffocating- and no matter where he turned, that was all there was. Watson ran forward- his leg not protesting, his shoulder not burning- for here, he was simply unscathed.

Suddenly a heavy arm gripped Watson and spun him around, and the next thing he knew, he was in a poorly lit tent, full of other men and young boys, sitting in hard splintered chairs. The space was large, but the air with thick with cigarette smoke and the loosely falling of night which only made the temperature rise while being held in a room with numerous other warm bodies'.

Watson inspected the space. The tent was large, and very roomy, but many spiders and other flying insects had made their webbing's apon the ceiling. There were no cuts in the material for windows, or openings. The dirt beneath his boots was rough, and the humidity skyrocketed. He kept drinking from his hip flask, full of water, to not simply pass out from the heat.

Watson saw however, that he was sitting far away from the pack. Actually, he was more so _facing_ the crowd, seated in the only chair in the very front of the tent, next to a heavy top table. He imminently sat upright in his chair however, as he recognized a largely muscled man walk by with glinting badges and a stethoscope. _The General Of The Army Medical Department._ Watson nearly choked on the smoke, though, he did his best to be quiet.

When the General opened his mouth, his voice shook the room, and the rest of the young medical staff froze like deer. His voice wasn't nearly as intimidating as to his face; scarred, dirty, his green eyes blazing with some fore-long and enigmaous hatred for everything he saw. _T-that's no way for a doctor to behave, _Watson stuttered in his own mind_, I'll…I'll never get that way…with anyone.._

"You. Gentlemen. Scrubs. Are here for one purpose. Although each of you have been induced in military training and can kill and fight those bastards out there in the trees, I want you to always keep in mind that you're not there to blast someone's skull open. You're not here to make friends, and you're not here to save lives. Trust me. You're here to extend those miserable bodies, or to send those men to a kindly death. You'll be given one pack of basic surgical tools and if I find you asking for more I'll cut you open my self and use your bones for a new kit." He smiled, and continued, holding open now a black cloth in his acid stained hands.

The speech sent a shock down Watson's spine. _How could he? Talk of those brave men like so? How…how…No.._

"This, I believe you all know what to do with. It's not just mentally crippling for the soldiers out there- Use it well." Some of the men rose and began passing out the small pieces. When Watson received his, he was quite confused. It was just long enough to tie around his wrist- or maybe enough to blindfold someone_….but…why?_

His brows furrowed together in confusion. Kits were then passed around- small, roughly thrown together leather packs whose straps hung off even the biggest of the troops' shoulders. Watson sighed a little at his. Being _Assistant General Surgeon_, he assumed he get abit better treatment than this..

He opened kit, going over all he had inside- and to his distress, the General wasn't joking- there were very few things inside. Some surgical knifes, rolls of gauze, saline solution packs, Petrolatum gauze pads, soap, and water. Watson woolgathered over the items, though he was very nervous to make sure he could use everything to his advantage. But still, it lay in his mind. _What of this silly cloth?_

"Sir..?" Watson tested his voice, as he addressed the General, waiting as the other young men migrated out of the tent. He kept messing with the cloth in his hand- _tying, untying, tying, untying_,-

"Yes, doc?" The general replied, clicking his teeth sarcastically over the 'c'. Watson nervously moved forward, opening his palms again to show the general.

_Tying, untying, tying, untying-_

"For God's sake son, I don't have all day!"

Watson abruptly stopped.

"Er….Sir..I don't quite understand what you mean by this cloth." The General eyed him for a moment, thinking.

"Aren't you the new Assistant to me, here?" Watson ducked his head, nodding. The General's dubious look in his eyes took a huge hit on Watson's self-esteem. A quiet 'uh-huhh' whispered sarcastically out the head surgeon's charred lips.

"Well son, it's a piece of woven material, dyed in ink, and then stretched to dry. It's great to cleaning up spills, and sometimes we even use it as parties- or if you're so tenaciously inclined to, the bedroom-"

"_Sir_!" Watson protested, a blush lining his cheeks. "I, I meant towards why we need it here, for the men outside. The wounded." The General pitched the bridge of his nose, breathing an annoyed sigh outward before finally turning back to face the young man.

"Son, you're supposed to use it to cover your own eyes." Watson was in shock, the colour draining from his face. His nails dug into the soft piece- anger took him.

"What? What could you possibly mean? What good could that do? I _refuse_ to cover my eyes while treating a-"

The General was suddenly very, very close to Watson now, towering above him. Watson watched as the puffs of the man's breath wavered in the air- the moisture being sucked dry. Watson shook, not daring to met the man's livid green gaze. A harsh whispered met Watson's ear.

"You'll see greenhorn, you'll see why I gave you this cloth and soon to come you'll think it's the most useful tool in your little bag. I don't know how you possibly got to the medical rank you're in, but you're not in your little school anymore. There's no cadavers or beakers here. When you see a man, half blown and shot to pieces- sometimes you just can't look. You'll see."

Through his fear, Watson raised his head and his blue eyes stared defiantly back at the General, and holding his black cloth in front of him, he ripped it in two. Green and Blue met then in a steam of sworn enemies.

"Even in such a Godforsaken sight I'll never do such a thing. I'm a doctor. I'm here to save _lives_- not my own _sanity_, damn it!"

"Such _optimism_." The General said, clapping Watson on the shoulder. "I think they shoot that out of you here." Then the man smiled cruelly, shoving Watson's roughly out of the tent.

"Get out there tomorrow and help someone die!"

Dishearten, Watson turned his head away from the many rows of tents and eager young men, ready to fight for Her Majesty come morning. Also, for once in his life, Watson didn't look at the moon, huge and full in it's sparkling beauty- thinking it hung just a bit higher, colder, and distant, than it had before.

_During Watson's mental visit, the night had left in London and the next morning had come, and with it, his troublesome roommates…_

"I thought," a peeking Sherlock Holmes declared through Watson's bedroom doorway, "That he requested no one should be in here?"

A flustered Mrs. Hudson turned 'round to find herself face to face with the noisy detective in a matter of seconds. They both spied in each other's hands a glass of ice water and a blanket. Mrs. Hudson however, still quite miffed from Holmes other day escapade, refused to back down.

"I'm quite sure he meant that towards you, Mr. Holmes." She continued covering up Watson with another blanket. Holmes took a step further, placing his glass on the bedside table, a jousting grin across his face.

"Ah, but my dear nanny, _I'm_ quite sure that he declared that to that _entire_ household. Including you." A crossed Mrs. Hudson glared back at Holmes with livid brown eyes. She folded her arms across her chest and walked right up to Holmes, forcing the surprised mastermind to take a step down in his observations and deal with the entirety of the problem.

"I," Mrs. Hudson fumed, baring her teeth angrily (_as Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!_ ) Echoed through Holmes head as his footsteps retreated and Mrs. Hudson's sharpened pointer finger (or as Holmes saw it: _the harpy women's bloody talon_) pushed against his chest. "Have been taking care of you two men since you've arrived those many years ago- especially _your_ scrawny, sorry, backside! And when the actual _gentle_man, of the lot of you is ill, I will continuing doing my duty henceforth and not take such sass from some whiny, ignorant, _child_!"

Holmes blinked a few times, his retreating steps chancing direction and he tripped himself into a chair. _A child? But_… Holmes studied his usual household enemy for a second- watching how gently she moved Watson's arm as she took his pause with her pointer and index finger- or how she held up her glass of water to his lips to make him drink. It there and then suddenly dawned on Holmes that he would be utterly lost in what to do without the beast of a woman. He awkwardly shifted in his seat and retried to re-correct himself. _Surely I could do such things properly._ But although the genius did not want to admit it- medical field and the catering of others was _not_ his strong suit.

Apon somehow sensing with relative ease the discomfort of Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson gave an over exaggerated sigh, and then quickly motioned the annoyance over. Even to Sherlock's own disbelieve, he found himself next to her in moments.

"Come- come. All right, now see here-" She took the detective by the wrist and measured out his heart rate, which beat at a steady rate. Apon realizing Holmes 'Ah'd'. "Mhm…" Mrs. Hudson muttered, "just as I thought, now. Feel this- " She placed Holmes forefingers around Watson's pale wrist, and almost immediately Holmes felt a harsh, rapidly, thudding of a furiously over-working heart.

Holmes quickly withdrew his fingers alarmed at this discovery of his ailing friend. A curious tingling sensation gripped the back of his neck in sudden anxiety. Mrs. Hudson took no notice and continued. "Now…I'm certainly no doctor, but I'm beginning to think Mr. Watson can rightly hear us- possibly in his subconscious, and that our…._animosity_…..is causing him to sense unnecessary stress- you know how much he hates rows- let alone amongst people he's close with."

"Who knew _Nanny _could get so deep." Holmes observed, throwing a sideways glance at Mrs. Hudson. She grimaced.

"Oh shut up you little- " Mrs. Hudson began, but then she took a breath. "Now…this is exactly what I mean. We need to remain calm…and..for however long this illness takes Mr. Watson, we need to remain _friends_." The landlady screwed up her face over the last word out of her mouth, like she'd just tasted something rather awful and Holmes discreetly shuddered.

"Alright." Holmes reluctantly agreed, stepping around Nanny and taking the cup from her hands. Mrs. Hudson took a few paces back, studying Holmes awkward movements and his futile attempt to make the unconscious doctor drink. To Holmes great alarm he hadn't a clue how to make it work_. No, no, blast_- his thoughts sped around in his skull. _Maybe if one is too_..

He placed his hands under Watson's jaw and slightly opened his mouth over to find great resistance and gritted teeth under the doctor's mustache and the water dribbled out of his mouth. _Stubborn brute_, Holmes added in defeat.

Mrs. Hudson quickly moved Holmes aside, wiping up the excess water just before putting her lips to his ear, whispering something that was much too quiet to even sharp master Holmes to make out. Suddenly, as if by magic, she placed the cup to Watson's lips and he slowly drank.

"I am _not_ whispering into his ear," Holmes declared defiantly, his eyes wide at how easily she had his friend drinking now. Mrs. Hudson suddenly turned back to Sherlock- her eyes mad in a suddenly appalled rage. She quickly grabbed Holmes' glass with her unoccupied hand and threw what was left of it's content right at the detective. Holmes blinked, his face entirely soaked and quite unsure what he had said wrong. Suddenly both the hostiles eyes' snapped to the still body in bed- alarmed if the sudden outburst had caused more damage. Slowly Nanny rechecked Watson's pause and turned to Holmes with a look that said '_We're under the radar yet_.'. Suddenly she was at Holmes' ear, her hands grasping the collar of his shirt- choking him.

"_You_, Mr. Holmes, should be willing to do _anything_ to save your best friend, and I'm so utterly _repulsed_ by your unwillingness to do anything! She bitterly whispered, "Mr. Watson, even if he _wasn't_ a doctor, would do anything for _you_." She glared, and Holmes tried to meet it, but his stare weaver to the floor in shame.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Mrs. Hudson claimed quietly, "The Great Sherlock Holmes, Stumped By His Own Cruelty." She sneered. "If Mr. Watson recovers, I'll ask _that_ to be his next report on you." He sank back down into a chair.

Sherlock Holmes was suddenly very alarmed, and he grasped Mrs. Hudson's hands in desperation, stuttering: "_If_? W-what you do mean by 'I-_if_? Of course he'll recover! It's inevitable! He has too!" She watched as the usually cold detective place his head in his hands- his dark hair dripping water droplets about the floor at his feet.

"I don't know what to _do_, Nanny.." he whispered, drowning in his own emotions. Mrs. Hudson's anger vanished on site, and a rare sympathy towards Holmes took its place. She placed a hand on Holmes shoulder…and with the other quickly slapped the detective across the back of the head.

"Well, _first_, nothing is going to get better before it gets worse! Now, if you'd like, I can teach you the very little I know of what to do in cases like these, but your childlike sulking can't be anywhere near this room. And none of your silly observations either! If you'd like to know- I wasn't whispering in Mr. Watson's ear- it's a strangely known fact that a gentle, calming voice when placed apon the asking of someone to do a difficult task has better rates of succeeding than one who _forces_." She winked at the anxious detective.

_Meanwhile.._

Back in Watson's mind, the long, grueling night had gone and now greeted him in morning. He arose from his tent, tying his pack to him, and loaded his rifle, keeping it close to his chest. He watched as the other soldiers disappeared into the dry, cracking, brush, and he himself set out- just waiting for the first victim. Then he heard it- a faint cry- 200 meters north. He took off sprinting.

Not watching were he was going, he ran flat into the General's back, whom, in 'surprise' turned and thrust the back of his gun as hard as he could into Watson's stomach. Watson let out a painful cry, and rolled to the dirt, stiffening in pain. When he was able to, he crawled to the brushes and was silently sick.

_During Watson's 'first day' out in the field…_

Suddenly a horrid noise came from Watson, as if one was choking him. He twisted around, wildly, coughing. Mrs. Hudson ran for a waste basin and Holmes quickly jumped to Watson's side, grabbing the doctor and holding him upright. It took quite a bit of strength though- much like holding down a unbroken colt- this news greatly surprised the detective. _Watson? Are you awake?_ Sherlock pleaded in his mind.

Apon the basket being placed, Sherlock had to grasp Watson's about the neck, and force him to lean over the bucket. Finally Watson threw up what little he had in his system, but it seemed to help. Holmes pulled his friend back onto the bed, laying him down. Sherlock's hope vanished- even doing that- his friend never regained consciousness.

"His fever's getting worse…" Mrs. Hudson said nervously, "But..but at least he's getting rid of the build up in his lungs and stomach..this way.." Holmes simply nodded, his eyes wide, and he quickly leapt up and grabbed the basin, claiming to go wash it out.

All while reaching the kitchen, Holmes kept closing and opening his eyes to check- and recheck- _no, no, quadruple check_- the basin, but it was there. Something he couldn't possibly let Mrs. Hudson see.

_Blood._


	3. Chapter Three

**~* The Chapter Where Watson Gets His Cane, and Holmes Gets a Scare!*~**

"_Oh_!" The General called to Watson's backside in faked surprised. "Didn't see you coming there, son!" The man walked over and roughly grabbed Watson's shirt collar, hoisting him back up and then hitting him hard across the back as Watson still coughed from the impact of the blow. "Shake it off solider, that's _nothing_ compared to those men dying in the brush."

"Sir- there's someone over there- I heard," Watson gasped out, and the General only turned his head in the opposite direction and cuffed Watson across the face.

"Son, I don't care if you heard the entire Ghazi armada. You're my assistant and I'm glad you're here. You're staying where _I_ need you." Right then another cry was heard somewhere to the south. "There! This way! Hurry!"

The General suddenly gripped Watson by the arm and began pulling him along. 100 yards in, they found him.

His heart pounding harshly in his ears, Watson identified the man of 26 years, black hair, blue eyes medium build. The General crouched down beside him, checking for a pulse. "We've got a live one- hand me my knife- insertion to the throat- there's too much blood in his jaw, he'll choke." Watson did as he was told, his anger shaking the instrument. The General took notice quickly as he worked on the solider.

"What's wrong son?" He smirked, twisting wire through the man's flesh to support his broken arm "I'm tellin' ya- if you listen to me, you'll survive. This is no place to try to play hero." Watson suddenly dropped the General's pack- _I've got to go back for solider I heard._ He put his left leg forward, back towards the sound that kept echoing his in his conscience.

"Where're you going?" The General spied, looking at Watson, "Don't you even- Hey! I said _no_!" The General took a wipe at Watson with the knife, nicking his upper lip. Watson tasted blood in the mix of his own shock.

Watson then simply adjusted his gun and pack, wiped his mouth. He glared at the ground and continued on towards the cry- praying now that he wasn't too late. _One minute, 45 seconds_, Watson muttered to himself_, if the heart stops, the brain will be dead in three-_ He tripped over a thick log staggering to maintain speed. _No, no, not in this heat- he'll be dead in two minutes- tops. _He ran faster, maneuvering 76 yards faster than he could have ever believed he could. Amongst the dry, cracking branches, it led him out onto an open patch of land. And in it, lay a young man- a boy even- about 18.

Watson covered the ground, twisting the boy's face to look at him, and spoke slowly to him.

The boy slowly opened his eyes, and the look Watson saw on the lad's face, would haunt him for all his days. The boy screamed bloody murder, tears suddenly swelling down his cheeks, muttering and slurring words from his loss of blood- the same phrase over ad over that Watson couldn't understand- but at the moment, Watson didn't care. The boy's eyes widen and were fixed high over Watson's shoulder, towards the flammable trees.

Pulling out gauze, he began quickly wrapping the young man's side. His flesh was split open into a deep, oozing wound, and bullets were deeply lodged into his right arm. He took his pulse with his field stethoscope, but through the fast, desperate beats, Watson heard another noise. An unmistakable sound of a gun trigger clicking into place.

_Back in London…_

_Blood. Bleeding. Internal bleeding. Watson is dying. _Holmes thought furiously to himself, his teeth gritting._Signs, signs, his fever, his coughing, coughing ruptured a lung? Possibly an organ? I don't recall seeing such horrendous gasps- so then it's suble bleeding. How long had it been going on? Years? Months? Had he been hiding it? Hmm, possibly, he knows funds are tedious around here- but he's a doctor, surely he has friends that would be willing to treat him._

Holmes down in his chair pulled up close to Watson's bedside. It had been nearly two days (or 40 hours, 57 minutes- in Holmes' steadily counting mind.) now since Watson had taken to bed- and since the vomiting blood incident, the doctor had neither stirred nor moved. Holmes ran his hand over his face and continued studying his friend.

'_Peaceful', is certainly __not__ the correct word here_, Sherlock thought while glancing over Watson's face, _he's breathing through his mouth, which means there's build up in his lungs and nostrils. Hm..now his breathing is shorter- taking more work. _He sighed.

_This is bad.._

Holmes closed his eyes as he rubbed them- listening to Watson's breathing and saying in one place for so long was taking it's toll. It was beginning harder and harder to stay wide-awake.

_In Afghanistan.._

Watson's heart stopped. _Don't let the boy know, the trauma could kill him, _was the only thought flickering in Watson's head. Slowly, he raised his left arm to his right shoulder, and torn off the sleeve. He quickly pulled it over the boy's eyes, and older brotherly stroked the sweat-beaded hair off the lad's dirty face.

"It'll be okay, I won't let you die.." Watson muttered over and over. Watson then slowly did the same for the opposite side of his clothes, tearing off the other sleeve and bundling the cloth into his own mouth. He then slowly turned his head, looking for the enemy. A shot fired and hit the dirt hard beside them, and Watson quickly covered the boy with his own body, and shots continued raining down.

_Move!_ Every fiber of Watson's being screamed at him, and he quickly pulled the injured solider up in his arms, and sprinted for the nearest tree. They nearly made it when three bullets pierced one of Watson's legs, and the pain shot up his spine, forcing Watson to bite hard into the cloth. The feeling was describable. A mix of being stung by a thousand wasps, to being set a flame, to a sword being stabbed through him over and over, but it was there. Watson was hit.

He stumbled, and half dragged him the rest of the way, laying the boy against the tree, taking cover. The boy whimpered, and tried to pull the darkness away from his eyes but through the pain Watson thought logically of his patient first and pressed the palm of one of his hands over the boy's eyes to stop him. _He mustn't see_.

Watson then quickly ripped through his kit, grabbing the sharpest knife and stabbed it into his leg, fishing the bullets out. If it weren't for the cloth, he'd have bitten his own tongue off in pain, but finally all bullets were removed.

He then went for the lad, feeling for broken bones. _Four cracked rips, one broken, massive lost of blood, must remove the bullets soon, appears to be no other signs of damage- _The boy finally spoke as Watson hooked a saline pack to him.

"Is..it…bad, doc..?" His was breathing hitched- the point of hysteria. Watson was thankful for the blindfold.

"You'll be fine." Watson said calmingly, gritting his teeth as he tore off the rest of his shirt, twisting it around his profusely bleeding leg. He then called as loudly as he could for assistance, and was met with a loud call back- The General was coming. Watson thought to stay here- thought to continue doctoring the lad but then something harsh, metallic, and simply un-human struck Watson's brain.

_Revenge._

_Back in present day London…_

Suddenly, a delirious Watson opened his eyes to the real world, thinking only one thing: _kill the man that injured that poor boy!_

He saw nothing except the sand, and trees, and then the figure of another man before him. Lifting his hand, he grasped the man's knee, cutting off blood circulation, making him off balance for-

Holmes slowly opened his eyes' apon feeling the intense pressure apon his leg, and then he screamed in pain. Suddenly he was flipped and pulled roughly to the floor, his face smashed into the carpet. Watson quickly pulled out a safely measure gun he had hidden under the mattress of his bed. Holmes then heard a noise that made his heart stop. The clicking of a gun's trigger in place.

"W-watson?" Holmes turned, moving as fast as he could away from the barrel, crushing his back against the bedroom wall, which caused most of the paintings to fall. "Watson? Get ahold of yourself!" _He's in a mad state, fever spiking, I've just got to hold out before he fires!_

"You don't know what you just did, do you?" Watson said in a cold, unfeeling voice. Holmes searched his body- _a safety pin, a sock, and his favorite pipe. Well, those certainly aren't going to help me. Ah well- even if I had a gun- I'm a lousy shot and it'll only be more the reason for Watson to fire._

Watson walked slowly to Holmes, and gripping him by the throat, forced the gun under his chin. "I'll have you know, I'm a doctor, and if this bullet doesn't blast out your brains well enough, I can just as easily take you're apart piece by bloody piece and still keep you alive to suffer through it _all_."

In Watson's mind, he had finally corned the man that had possibly taken his patient's life, and the use of one of his legs- but something was off- how did the man know his name? His vision flickered- _loss of blood_? Why did the open field suddenly look like a bedroom, and then it flickered back to broken fiery trees. Watson's thoughts darted, but the man still pleaded- his best friend? That couldn't be…

Holmes took the time to study- _his mind's confused, he's having a hard grasp of what's reality, I must take advantage…now!_ Holmes quickly thew out his foot as hard as he could into Watson's scarred leg, and Watson immediately dropped to his knees in pain.

"Sorry old boy." Holmes whispered into Watson's ear,- _Watson's world was spinning- losing control-_ he then grabbed Watson 'round the neck, and pulled him to the bed, holding him down, "I truly am."

He ripped the gun out of the doctor's grasp and then spun around the handle, bringing it down hard into the back of Watson's skull.

Everything went black in Watson's world, and he welcomed the silence..

_A few minutes later.._

Homles had quickly pulled Watson carefully back under his covers, checking and recheck Watson's pulse and breathing- making very, _very _sure he hadn't cause any further damage. Apon realizing everything was just- Holmes sank back down into the bedside chair, and just thought. Possibly considering slapping himself across the face a few times.

_This was bad. Very, very, very bad. Blood, disillusions. He nearly killed me- God, what if he tries to attack the sweet old bat? Bad. I'll have to do it now, I'll have to find a doctor or..or-_ Holmes rung his fingers through his matted hair, unable to accept what option would come next.

Suddenly Mrs. Hudson entered the room, and apon seeing Holmes, an extremely puzzled expression lit up her face. She laughed- for what she felt like she hasn't laughed in years- "What the devil got into you, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes glanced over at the smiling witch and cemented his composure- a smile lilting up his face. _That's it old boy, this is all very humorous, and not minutes ago did a ravenous doctor which whom you call your best mate didn't try to blow out the back of your skull._

"Ah, nothing my dear," Holmes shifted out of his seat and let Mrs. Hudson take over for the next watch. "Say, did you ever happen to see where Watson keeps his funds?"

A sly look crossed Mrs. Hudson's face as she sat down. "N-no. Why so?"

"Well, I've been thinking of calling apon a doctor, and I certainly don't have the money- I'm paying for this month's rent and Watson said-" Mrs. Hudson suddenly looked nervous as she fixed her skirt.

"Well, I did…see something of that possible place…I think in the dresser, over there." She pointed to an ornate dresser, and Holmes quickly went to work on its lock. Mrs. Hudson suddenly did a double take of the back room's wall.

"Say…Mr. Holmes, didn't those pictures hang in a different order…?"

Holmes opened open the drawer and found, dis-hopefully, that it was quite empty. In a hurry, Homles sprang to his feet and started descending the stairs- but not before yelled back to Mrs. Hudson- "I assure you Nanny, I've not the slightest to what you're talking about!"

Back in Watson's mind, Watson had abruptly awoken back in the field hospital, laying on a cot. It took him a few moments, but he couldn't properly feel one of his legs. He quickly got up- favoring his injured leg, and apon seeing the General, called loudly, "Where is he?"

The General looked up, his green eyes somber. "Son, in a room full of men, I think you'll have to be alittle more specific." Watson finally reached him.

"The boy! The child I found! Where is he?"

The General quickly motioned Watson over to a small cot on the far right hand side of the tent. The boy lay, breathing harshly, his arm stitched up and his side bandaged, though still thick and dark with blood. Watson felt sick.

"He's in critical condition- lost a ton of blood, but..well…" The General gave a shrug of his shoulders. "Oh yeah, a gift for you. From the medical staff. Heh-heh." He chucked at his own joke, and shoved a thin, black cane into Watson's hands. Watson glanced over it for a moment and leveled himself out with it. It felt awkward to stand with. To cope, he turned his attention back to his patient.

"That's not good enough- we're doctors dammit! I want constant surveillance over this boy." The General made a throat clearing noise in the silence of the room of sleeping and unconscious soldiers.

"Doctors don't save people, son."

"What does?"

The General turned his back to Watson, standing over the dying boy. He ran his fingers over the lad's wound, and the tips of his fingers turned deep red.

"Chance. It's all a big game of gambling. You a gambler, lad?"

Watson looked away.

_Above the Surface…_

"Damn it, Watson!" Holmes yelled, storming about the flat, tearing open drawers and lifting up rugs. "Must you compulsively gamble everything in our possession? I thought I had that vault shut! Closed up tight! Damn! Damn-" suddenly he stopped as he tripped over Gladstone, whom licked him slowly with a massive pink tongue before dropping it's contents out of his mouth. Watson's wallet.

"Ah," Holmes said, slightly embarrassed of his rage. "Good boy." He quickly patted Gladstone's head before jumping to his feet- wallet in hand- and made for his coat before stepping out into never ending London rain. Through it all Holmes only had three options. _I must find Watson a willing doctor. If not, I'll learn how to gamble him one, and if not that_…..he glanced at the bull dog, laying lazily at his master's door.

_I'll have to simply sell Gladstone._

_Below the Surface…_

"No?" The General smiled, his yellow teeth shining. "Well then I suggest you get an addiction for it real fast." Watson stood up, tracking his cane against his chair, wishing it were the General instead.

"Peoples' lives aren't meant to be gambled with, Doctor." Watson said, limping towards the General, and forcing his shoulder to hit into the higher ranked surgeon's as he made for the door.

"Really now?" The General sarcastically questioned, his voice lightening. "Well then you better tell that to those killers out there! Teach them the meaning of _life_ and all that. Bring God into their lives!"

Watson stopped at the tent's exit, turning to glance once more at his patient- watching the boy's chest rise and fall weakly. "There's no God in war, sir."

The General snorted, and he strode over to the crippled doctor. Just as he made his leaving, he tapped the heel of his boot to the back Watson's injured leg, and listened to Watson's breath hitch, and then _hiss_ out in pain.

"I told you not to play hero, boy."

Watson sighed, and stared down at his leg, realizing that he couldn't possibly leave now. Even the slightest of pressure had re-opened the wound. He limped back over to the boy's bed and pulled up a chair beside it, rebinding himself. When he was finished, he glanced back over at his patient, and decided to finally put a name to a face, and checked for a dogtag. He found it in the boy's sock, a crumbled piece of yellow paper. He sat down and opened it gently.

_James Gladstone_

_Aged: 19_

_Date of Birth: October 9__th, __1862_

_Height of 5'10, Weight of 135 lbs._

_Gladstone._ Watson repeated to himself in his mind, leaning his head into his hands. _God. Please don't die.._

Watson closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter Four

**~*The Chapter Where Watson is Absent Without Leave, and Holmes Searches For a Doctor*~**

As the days continued in Watson's mind, the war still raged on, and everywhere he looked, it was death. His wounded leg didn't keep him down- he still moved in the field as determined as ever, but it was nothing short of terrible. Men with bullet holes, chests blown open, necks cut that were still gushing. It was too _late- far, far too late_ by the time the good doctor reached them to do much of anything accept to collect the crude sweat soaked dog tags sketched into the back of belts and penned to the inside of shirts. As his fever spiked, the days moved on, and soon he was apart of a pick up screw, assigned to find pieces and parts of men that Watson scrambled to put back together like a demented children's puzzle, sketched into the brazen dirt and sand at his feet.

_ London Time…_

_The hospital_, Holmes told himself in his mind, as he walked faster and fast down the slick London streets, careful to not trip over his own shoes and cut even more time that could be spent aiding Watson. _Watson earned his reputation there, and goes there often for indulgences in friends and medical supplies. Surely someone there would be willing to help without finical indifferences. _

He continued to make his way south of Baker Street, and paced passed many carriages and screaming beggars and ladies, all wailing to get out of the rain that still had not let up. Holmes psychoanalyzed the people as he walked on, (Alcoholism, Ombrophobia, or for the beggars case- Ablutophobia,) until he got quite carried away and realized that he did not recognize the street or district he was in. Looking towards the sky, it was impossible to tell the time of day without one's pocket watch, for his eyes were immediately filled with water. He flipped the side of his jacket up, shrugging. _No matter- sound shall help me here._

As Sherlock had done for most of his life, he had analyzed and memorized by scent and sound of his environment. Living in England at such a time- where every building was gray, and old, and parished, one usually couldn't relay on landmarks. Lenburs Lane has crying prostitutes, Minors Rode has bakers, (which reminded Holmes: why didn't _Baker_ street, have bakers? One would always love a fresh bagel in the morning!) and Maryline Street had boarding homes.

He tinted his head, listening to the streets normal rhythm for only a few seconds-_CRASH_- thunder rolled the sky and Sherlock jumped a little, throwing himself of balance. Apon trying again he discovered that the inconstant crying of wet people and the pitter-pattering of heavy rain smacking the ground made it extremely hard to pick up any rhythm at all. Let alone a _natural_ one. Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly lost.

Or was that so? He quickly dove through his jacket's deeply soaked pocket only to come about with change and lint. _Damn_, he thought, scavenging the opposite pocket, _I swear I always keep a map of London in here, unless of course_- suddenly Homles' hand wrapped around something metal. Pulling it out he discovered a stethoscope. _Unless, of course that is, I took Watson's jacket. _He finished, as he weighted the heavy object in his hand.

_Well I could simply ask for_- Suddenly, a young woman ran up, and grabbed Holmes' hand, pulling him along, her voice frantic.

"Oh! Thank God, Thank Heaven I found another one! There's so many hurt and injured- this blasted rain has caused so many accidents and colds to the homeless and misfortunate. We need all the staff we can get- hurry! Hurry now! Pick up your feet!"

Homles opened his mouth to question and tell the confused dear that he was not, infact, a doctor but she'd hear nothing of it. She pulled him westwards now, and then finally they reached the hospital, an old bricked building covered in fresh ivy and floral life- bright pink flowers drank up the rain and looked alien against the foggy atmosphere. Soaked and teeth chattering, Holmes could see her breath dissipate when she talked, and led him inside the thick iron gates.

"Ma'am, I beg you, I'm not-" she shoved him through the door and into the emergency room- where rows apon rows and coughing, ailing, bleeding, and other traumatic people sat. It was spacious, and warm, (which made Holmes' shiver more,) and apon looking further in, Holmes spied a man with even a carriage wheel trapped about his waist. He also noticed however, that there wasn't a doctor in sight. He internally groaned, and slipped away from the young woman, and fled unnoticeably out the door exit. _There has to be doctors here somewhere- not just in hiding from such a large crowd_. He walked around the back alleyway, which led to another door. He picked the several locks on the door and went inside.

It was incredibly warm inside, and Holmes sighed in relief. He saw a very large and wide clock on the wall that read half past six at night. Very few people were in the small room, and they all looked quite friendly. They all wore white clothing, hats, and a smile. Holmes approached the person standing closest- a young woman, and gently shook her hand.

"Evening Ma'dam, I am Sherlock Holmes, and I am seeking a doctor for my very ill comrade. Do you happen to be one?" The woman turned and simply stared at the detective, her blonde hair curled gently down her shoulders, and she was quite pretty. She only smiled though, softly with her lips. Holmes filled the silence by trying again.

"Well, if you aren't incline to such a manner, could you possibly tell me where I'd find one?" The woman slowly shook her head, and placed her hand on his shoulder, tracing an old tear in his jacket.

"Er-, yes, it's torn- and please, don't, no ma'am, I said please, please don't touch," Sherlock rolled his shoulder and pulled the woman's hand away. He quickly swept the floor of the room and asked the two men standing in the corner who were talking in harsh whispers. The stopped and stared buggily at Holmes, as if they couldn't understand what he was saying. Suddenly the young woman was back again, and she pulled Holmes to the center of the room. Holmes took noticed of the rest of the small group suddenly paying extreme attention to them both. Holmes swallowed nervously.

"Yes, hello ma'am," Sherlock said, and she took his hand and traced her fingers along it. _Something is wrong here, _he thought, twisting his neck to look further around. Suddenly the woman gripped Sherlock's face and pulled him close to her, and kissed him deeply. Alarmed and taken back, Sherlock froze for a second, and then pulled away.

"Ma'am, uh, I- I assure you that you're probably a very lovely lady, but I just don't feel-" A loud, girlish scream came from behind Holmes, and another woman had jumped on his back, throwing him to the ground. _What the hell is going on? _The blonde woman quickly tore Holmes' attacker off of him, and in doing so, tore up Watson's jacket further. Holmes jumped to his feet, and watched at the two pretty women rolled apon the floor, screaming girlishly, fighting. Holmes tried his best to reason: "Ladies! Ladies! I…I'm quite sure this is…there's…there's enough to go around?"

Suddenly the whole room was in a tizzy, and Holmes was thrown to the floor once more, over-powered by the group, but then the opposite windowed door opened and a man walked in, also dressed in white but with a name-tag and chart. "Whoa! WHOA!" he yelled, and the crowd scattered. Holmes lay apon the floor in quite a shock, breathing heavily. The man looked at him funnily, and helped him up.

"Sir, are you….okay?" Holmes shook himself thoroughly to stop shaking.

"Y-yes. I'm sure I'll be."

"Uh, huh." The man said, (Sherlock saw his name to be 'Robert'.) "Well, that's good. But I have another question. Are you _insane_?"

"Well Robert, that depends on perspective I suppose. I think I have a brilliant mind, but I have been called 'insane' by a good many-"

"No. No sir." Robert the nurse said roughly, checking his chart. "I mean, are you _clinically_ insane? Do you have the proven right to _be_ in here?" Holmes was taken back once more.

"I'm afraid I don't-"

"Sir, you're in an insane ward. These people here are placed and checked for their health before we ship them off elsewhere."

The detective looked around carefully. "Yes…," he saw the inmates never-ending smiles. "Quite."

Nurse Robert sighed, and led Holmes from the room through a windowed door. "I'm sorry sir, but I've no time for free-bees and askees' today, I'm going to have to ask for you to show yourself out. We're far too busy and I'm afraid no doctor can see you. Especially by sneaking in."

Holmes looked behind him once more and saw the pretty blonde woman at the door wave her fingers at him. He turned back. "No, I'm not here for myself, I-"

"I'm sorry sir," Robert said, turning apon the opposite hall. "The door is just alittle ways to your right." Holmes made his way to the door, and watched the nurse walk away again. _So short staffed today? Well then, other doctors must be home!_

Holmes quickly and quietly followed suit, memorizing the twisting hallways before reaching an empty file room. He quickly picked the drawers and grabbed random addresses of doctors and then made his way back to the outside door, before disappearing down the street- acting quite like nothing had _ever_ happened.

Holmes walked for a good hour, the evening sun setting and the moon rising, for eight o'clock had now hit. He noticed by the change of street goers- now less and less people haunted the streets, and the clouds held a darker hue. The rain however, lighten up just a bit. He checked the twenty-three addresses he had shoved into the jacket's pocket and tried the first house. Approaching the small flat he knocked gingerly. A short old man answered his face scrunched in annoyance.

"Yes, hello sir, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I am here to-" _Slam_. The door was shut. Holmes sighed, and knocked again. It opened once more.

"Hello! Sir! My name is Sherlock-" _slam_. Once more, Holmes knocked. The door opened a little ways and the man yelled out: "I DON'T WANT TO BUY ANY MORE COOKIES!" _Slam_. Holmes cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled.

"Sir! I am not trying to sell you anything! I just-" The door opened, and the little man stepped out into the crisp London night.

"Ah good, I was thinkin' you were a lil' old to be sellin' cookies anywa'." Holmes grimaced.

"Sir, I am in desperate need of-" The man suddenly became furious, and he kicked the poor deceive in the shin.

"YOU AIN'T GETTING ANY MORE OF MY MONEY!" S_lam._ Biting his lip to stop from howling in pain, Holmes hobbled down the street to the next address.

Sadly as he'd like to say, this method continued for quite a few more hours- doors slammed, yelled at, spilt on- it seemed simply on one would listen to the poor Mr. Holmes, in just a desperate pled for someone of medical understanding to help his friend. Holmes even had food and furniture thrown at him. He crossed off seventeen addresses- only to find the next four address to be out of date, and home to only tired officers and a kindly old woman who gave Holmes a sewing kit to repair Watson's jacket. With only two more houses left, Holmes moved on.

Apon trying the second to the last houses' door, Holmes found it was locked, but light shone through the upper window. Holmes took a short breath, evaluating. _If I'm to get up there, I'll need a structure that supports my weight. It's quite barbaric of me for intruding but the hour is late and I'm getting desperate.. _Holmes noticed a wooden drainpipe, leading up to the roof. He quickly folded the insides of the sleeves around his hands so he wouldn't get splinters. (The jacket was, as much as Holmes didn't like to admit it much, bigger on him than Watson. Watson was taller.) He wrapped his legs around the pipe and shimmied up, but just before reaching the window, he heard a tare and saw that his material of the jacket's shoulder had torn. _Watson's going to hate me for this when he's better._

Holmes reached the upper window, and pulled himself inside- only to find shockingly that he had entered apon a lady bathing! The woman screamed, and wrapped a towel around herself before grasping up a toilet plunger and beating Holmes with it.

"Ma'am, I- am- sorry- to- intrude- but- I- was- wondering- if- you'd- be- so- kind- as- to- help- my- ill- friend?" Holmes yelled between hits. "If it helps, I –didn't see- anything!"

Unfortunately for this case, Holmes was rejected once more, and he saw himself out. Very, _very _quickly.

_Damn it!_ Holmes cursed in his mind, making his way slowly, tiredly and defeated to the last house a block over. He found it to be a very prestigious place, with two bird statuses holding stones in their mouths and led up to an ornate door with more bird designs. Holmes gently grabbed the golden knocker and banged on the wood. He had to do this several times before finally it opened and an older gentleman, rubbing his eyes stepped out.

"Son…do you have any idea what time is it, as of now?" Holmes shuddered as the wind picked up, and gave a tired shrug at the man.

"No sir, I'm quite sorry to say I've no watch on me. Please, I am in need of desperate help. Are you a doctor?" The older gentleman looked Holmes up and down, and quickly stepped inside more, smiling. Holmes; to the man looked beat up- his jacket torn in many places and his hair askew with dark circles under his eyes.

"You look like hell, sir." Holmes sighed.

"Yes, sorry for my haggard appearance. This isn't exactly how I thought my night would pan out." The man chuckled.

"Plans never go accordingly. Well, why don't you come inside and I'll make some coffee. It's one in the morning, if you were curious. You say you're in need of- of a doctor was it? Are you ill?"

Holmes smiled a rare smile as the thought of something warm. He had been walking in freezing rain for hours now. "No sir, I am not ill, but my dear friend is. Incredibly. And as much as I appreciate your offer, I really shouldn't- I just need to get him help as soon as possible."

The older gentleman thought for a moment. "Well, how about a brief visit then, and I'll do what I can for your friend."

He welcomed Holmes inside and Holmes came in, stock oddly by the the wealthy furnished sitting room. A huge fireplace stood grandiosely in the center of the room, and great beasts' heads hung on plates from the walls. Holmes took a seat, gratefully accepting the piping hot drink and the man sat across from him. Holmes studied the room as the man told his name- Walter Morrlows.

_A doctor, hobby as a hunter, from a wealthy family line, but the last name was changed, _Holmes concluded_, staring at the family crest that was craved into the fireplace mantle. Two birds with stones in their mouths. They've nothing to do with Morrlows- low, wet wine vineyards, not birds. Strange. The birds appear to be swallows- birds of marshes and lakes. Curious._

"So, what seems to have gotten you in that horrid state, sir?"

"Ah, I am in such a state for I have traveled nearly all over London in search of a doctor to help my friend. You see he is a doctor too and I-"

"And you've no money for such things?" The man finished for him. Holmes looked over the man's features. Strong jaw, black, thinly graying hair, blue eyes, gold worn wedding ring on his ring finger. The blue reminded him of Watson's eye colour, but another thing reminded him of his friend as well.

"Yes. And, did you serve in the war of Afghanistan? The war of 1880?" The doctor was abruptly taken back, his eyes guarded.

"H-how the blazes did you know that?" He asked slowly.

"The way you hold your leg. It's your knee isn't it? Wounded? My friend, he has an injured leg the very same way. You also have a sand-whipped look to your face- your skin. I've been told the winds pick up very harshly there. Your shoes are also tied like a soldier's. I know this, because my friend also ties his shoes in that same structural fashion and never trips while I'm tripping everywhere." Holmes chuckled.

The doctor was very still for a moment, processing, and his eyes enigmatic. "Yes. I indeed did serve in that war, me, and my younger brother. I was much older than most of the younger men, but I was strong. I'm very lucky to survived, as is your friend, I am assuming."

Holmes nodded, taking a deep drink from his cup. _The talk of war seems to greatly upset the doctor- that may be why in regards to the name change. How unusual for the man to give up rights of his birthing name to his wife's._

"So, tell me about your friend. His symptoms." Holmes quickly laid out Watson's tidings.

"It started with a headache, chills, he took to bed and slept. Two- ah, three- days have gone by of high fever and sweating." The doctor laughed.

"Well son, I'm sorry to tell you this but I'm afraid you went through hell over nothing- it sounds like the basic flu, and he'll sweat it out eventually." Holmes slowly clenched the arm of his chair.

"I realize doctor, I thought the same at first;- but hell I would gladly go through now. It's gotten much worse. He vomited blood, but a small amount. I worry for internal bleeding. Also.." Holmes stopped a moment to drink once more, his throat running dry from his unusual nervousness about the matter. "My friend attacked me, in a spiking fever delusion. Sought to kill me."

The doctor laughed again noticing Holmes nervousness. "Gave you a scare, did he? You know it's not uncommon for these matters to happen amongst war-folk. He's probably done it before, just with no one around. Does he carry a weapon?"

"A pistol. Yes."

"Then I can guarantee you it has." The doctor grinned in good humor. Holmes tried again.

"No, no, you see this is very serious. It's one thing to attack me, but he could attack my Nanny." The doctor choked abit on his hot coffee.

"You are still in possession of a nanny?" Holmes' face blushed as he further explained.

"No, no, it's- it's a silly nickname for our landlady- oh, I don't know- but, hear me out, this is quite serious Doctor. I truly, would be in eternal debt if you were to cure my friend."

The man studied Holmes' face, thinking. "Well, alright, I can gladly help your friend. You say he's a doctor too; what's his name?"

"Doctor John H. Watson, Sir." Suddenly the man lit up lividly, an angry purple striking his face. He jolted himself up, and grabbed Holmes by the collar of his shirt, (forcing poor Holmes to spill most of his hot coffee on his pants,) shaking in rage. For an old man, he was still remarkably strong.

"_Watson_? Watson you say? He's still _alive,_ that brute? That dog! How dare you! I'll never help _anyone_ that's friends with such a horrible man!" He spit out the words spitefully, his eyes like weapons forcing their way into Holmes dark eyes'. "_That traitor some dog_! He should have _died_! I take it back! I take it _ALL_ back! I hope that sickness _kills_ him! Get out! Get out of my sight!"

He let go of Holmes, shoving him back towards the door. Holmes was in too much shock from now and the ladder of his day to say much of anything- though in retrospect, he deeply wanted too.

Holmes stopped at the door, turning to face Morrlows. "Fine- fine! But one more thing doctor- why _did_ you change your last name? I know it used to be _Gladstone_, funnily, we own a bulldog with the same name. But I know _Gladstone_ for the birds are swallows, common to marshes or everglades; 'glad' coming from 'glade' and stone coming from the obviousness of the items the birds often carry. But why change it?"

The doctor glowered at him darkly from the hall.

"I wanted no association with that bloodline anymore. Now show yourself out."

"Then I suggest changing your crest." Holmes added, shutting the door.

_Watson, you traitorous dog_, Holmes thought jokingly, _you're not going to make this easy for me, are you chap?_

Right then, however, Holmes had an epiphany.

_That's it! That's it!_ Holmes thought, making his way towards his laboratory center. _I'll have to simply help myself with this matter. If no doctor will help without pay- then I shall be forced to win it. And I know just the teacher._ Once there, Holmes concocted a mix of chemicals and fed them into a sirange. An adrenaline shot. Then hailing his way back home in a carriage, Holmes quietly thumbed the covered needle in contemplation and the driver suspiciously eyed him the entire way.

Dawn was breaking by the time Holmes jumped out of the wagon, careless throwing Watson's pocket change at the driver before slamming the door inside, and bounded up the stairs three at a time. _God, what if he attacked Nanny? _He threw open the door, only to find that Mrs. Hudson was no where in sight, and that she had cleaned up. Holmes sighed in relief, and padded wearily over to Watson's bedside, watching his ailling's friend's breathing struggle and labor- sweat beaming down every part of him. Holmes carefully took out the needle, and grasped Watson's wrist. Watson responded by clenching his fist, and Holmes nervous swallowed, remembering the blows he had received last time.

"This is probably going to hurt me, far less than it'll hurt you, my friend." Holmes added, flicking the air out of the needle, and aiming over Watson's vain. He then took a deep breath, plunged the needle in.


	5. Chapter Five

**Author's Response:** Hi everyone! So sorry my chapter is a day later than usual. I'm trying to post one every two days. Um, um, but I hope you enjoy! And that it isn't too bad..and yes...so..uh.

Enjoy! And thanks to everyone (SO much!) for for reading! Uh, er, um, possibly...review...if..you'd like..?

Thank you! *Stumbles away to go hide!*

**~*The Chapter Where Watson Gets a New Friend, and Holmes Learns Gambling*~**

While still in his mind, and even while he slept there, in his cold army tent, amongst the dry, crackling grasses and howling wind, Watson dreamed. He couldn't understand- no, he certainly couldn't- not even grasp it, or give reasonable explanation to it, but he heard _music_. A violin, if he wanted to be exact, like on the days where he'd wonder in his own weary mind from exhaustion and sun exposure, and simply no one to talk to. It'd play softly, and low: mysteriously. It gave Watson the most curious feeling as well, though he kept telling himself he was just overly tired. He didn't even _know_ a single person in all his days that could play such a instrument. But it was there, in his mind and whenever he heard it, he would feel…almost as if enlightenment were on the way. A feeling of knowing something is so close, but you just can't feel it. It was the most peculiar thing, and alarmed, Watson told no one- not a soul. Sometimes, he'd refuse to believe it even to himself. But the violin kept on playing…and at night, Watson would always keep an ear out. Constantly listening, and trying so, so desperately hard...to _remember._

It started softly, the violin, this particular night, rising, and then becoming incredibly loud. The tune brought a strange word to his lips, but it was like he kept stumbling over it, and it'd fall back down, and disappear into the darkness of his throat. But he kept trying, and in his deepest of sleep, it would over take him. No longer would he dream the cries of dying men, or the terrified face of James'- it would be nothing but music. And Watson gladly accepted that.

"Hey..." a weak voice called to him, and Watson opened his eyes' slowly, the music gone and along with it any progress he'd made with remembering. Sighing, Watson rubbed his eyes and then felt a tug on his knee. He glanced over and realized that James had regained consciousness- _finally_. In all those days Watson preformed as a crewman, he had worried about his only surviving patient. After all- he was special. He _did_ give the use of his leg for him. But finally the General had called him in to just tend to the wounded. Watson didn't like to admit it, but he _despised_ the look the General gave him. It was full of contempt. And he'd stare at Watson's injury and shake his head- like that made him _less_ of a solider. The very thought boiled Watson's blood.

"Gladstone," Watson said, leaning down, pulling the lad's sweaty hair out of his eyes and taking the boy's pulse- slow, orderly, _healthy_- if that was any proper term in a deteriorating army hospital. Watson couldn't help but feel especially fond of the boy. He never had siblings, and just felt inclined to be nice when the boy's horrified face would appear in Watson's dreams at night and he'd awaken in a cold sweat. "How long have you been awake?"

"Awhile." James said softly, coughing and screwing up his face in pain. _I'll have to rewrap his wound soon_, Watson thought, standing up and then having to begrudgingly use his cane. His hurt leg was stiff and sore from how long he had had been asleep sitting. "I couldn't possibly sleep with all that noise."

Watson laughed to himself quietly. "The other men's snoring keeping you awake?" He walked to the opposite side of the boy, pulling out clean gauze. James coughed again, trying to laugh.

"_Their_ snoring? Are you joking? More like _your_ snoring." Watson stopped and glanced up at the boy, rather embarrassed.

"I-I snore?" James laughed again, a slight little brotherish teasing lit up his face, his blue eyes' seeming less dull.

"No, no, you don't snore. It's more of…_ow_!" Watson continued wrapping the boy's side, his faced worried.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Watson muttered, "There, done. The stitching looks better." James made a face anyway. "Are you sure you're nineteen, Mr. Gladstone?"

"Yeah, ha, I just look really young. I get that a lot. Wait, did you just call me _Mr. Gladstone_? And how do you know my age in the first place?" Watson laughed at the lad's curiosity. _At least he has a good humor about everything_, Watson commented in his mind.

"We're doctors. We're meant to know these kinds of things. And what you were saying about my snoring, _Mr_. Gladstone?" Watson asked jokingly, sitting back down in the bedside chair.

James' laughter turned into coughing, and when the fit was over, he weakly finished with a: "I would've guessed you were some kinda detective or something- knowin' so much about me."

Something turned in Watson's brain, and the word was at his lips again- _detective_, that was the word that triggered it, but it wasn't the word he was looking for- and awake, for once during it, he tried so hard to remember, but James kept talking, and his mind quickly focused back on reality.

"We're friends, right? So, just call me James. Being so formal," James said quietly, his light eyes scanning his surroundings. "Reminds me of my bother, Wally, sheesh." _Friends_, Watson said in his mind, and he extended his hand to James. He thought he'd never make a friend here. That it was _impossible._

"Friends it is, Mr.-er, _James_. Sorry, it's standard medical procedure to address patients by their last names, not just general formality." James shook his hand and then settled back into his pillows.

"Just like it's _medical procedure _to rescue some hurt, idiot solider and get bullets shot into your leg?" Watson grimaced internally, -_quick lad_- and reached down to rub the back of his wounded leg. It still hurt. James eyed him whimsically, but his childlike features turned serious.

"Thank you, for...that...by the way." James stared at his hands while he spoke, his voice getting quieter, so that Watson had to strain to hear him. "I…didn't mean for that to happen. I'm really…very sorry …sir." Watson smiled in the shadows, and ruffled the boy's hair.

"It's quite alright James- what matters isn't the wound, but the whole. And you're safe. That's what matters to me, not some leg. Besides, I've this interesting cane now," Watson picked up his cane and twirled it a little, showing off for his new sick friend. Watson still _resented_ using it, but for James, he lightened up. _Please don't blame yourself for this son_, Watson thought. James grabbed Watson's cane out of mid-air, his eyes' lighting up in gratitude. Sadly it slipped out of his grip, and ended up smacking his side. James yelped a little in pain. Watson quickly picked it back up.

"D-don't worry, it takes some practice." Watson struggled to change the subject. It was obvious to Watson that James wasn't a very graceful lad. James twisted, getting more comfortable again, his blue eyes' meeting Watson's, and then turning back down to stare at his bed-sheets.

"My brother thinks I'm not cut out for the military either." Watson's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. "But I mean...after our folks died…I didn't have much of a choice but to follow him here. I just...want to prove that to him, I guess." James coughed roughly, doubling up.

"Lad, I never thought that you weren't. I'm sure you're a strong solider. Your attitude is the best I've met so far here, honestly." Watson could sense some type of struggle going on with the boy- the way his eyes' shifted and how he kept wringing his hands. It reminded him of when he first tried to speak to the General.

"Yeah, well, I know I'm young, and small, and maybe not the most disciplined of guys- I mean _hell_, I didn't want to be in the army either," he coughed again, roughly. When he spoke again, his voice was horse. " But...I know I have something that Walter will never get."

Watson shifted in his seat, unsure of what to make of the conversation. He leaned in, listening.

"I'm not afraid to die." James' blue eyes' suddenly lifted and met Watson's with a deep defiance. Watson's mind swam- he kept picturing the dying lad in his mind- his terrified face and his blue eyes' swelling with tears when Watson had found him. Watson cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Are you now…?" Watson asked quietly, wrapping and unwrapping his hands from around his cane.

"Yeah." Suddenly James' eyes met Watson's again and Watson was trapped in the icy colour they had turned. "Back there...I…I wasn't crying, because I was afraid to die." James suddenly held up a hand, as if to guard himself- "Well first, I was in horrible pain-" James laughed and his eyes seemed to melt into a lighter blue, but then froze again. "I wanted to warn you for the other gunman, the…the guy that shot me. And…got your leg. I was trying to…tell you to run."

Watson's mind flashed again, and it took all he had not to have his mouth hang open. _That phrase he kept trying to tell me_- (Watson had curiously mulled it over and over for days now)-._..was to protect me._ Touched, he ruffled the boy's hair again.

"Well then I _know_ you're cut out to be a solider. The best of them think of others first. That's why we're here. To protect our people." Watson stood, and tapped his cane on the boy's bedside rhythmically as he walked towards the tent's exit.

"But…" he kept his back to the lad, too embarrassed to actually face him. "You shouldn't have done that for me. I'd never run away even if I understood the gravity of the situation. I'm a doctor, and it's my duty to help people. It's what I love to do. And speaking of which, James, being your doctor, you need to sleep." Watson couldn't see it, but James looked at him with a hopeful expression- an expression he'd never even given his older brother before, let alone a new friend.

"Heh, fine. But as your _friend_, I'm telling you, you talk in your sleep." Watson suddenly flinched, and dropped his cane to the floor. It made a hard _ping_ sound. Watson slowly twisted his head to look back at James.

"I…do?" James laughed again between coughs, a mocking expression on his face.

"No, you don't talk in your sleep, or snore. It's more…of...a…hum. Really. Like music." Watson felt a cold chill run up his spine. _The music in my dreams? _He quickly turned 'round.

"Well, I'm so...sorry, for keeping you up then." Watson fidgeted.

"No, it's okay." James said, staring at the ceiling, and the two of them looked away in embarrassment. "It's…I dunno, _entertaining_. Nothing much else to do here in a room full of half-dead guys." James laughed, and Watson limped towards the door, smiling. "Say Doc, you know any _other_ songs besides classical...?"

"Like I said lad, best attitude yet." Watson paused at the exit. "I'll check on you in the morning. Be sure to tell me if that cough gets any worse."

Once outside, Watson continued making his way towards his tent, thinking over what the strange music could mean, when the General's rough voice caught his ears.

"Don't get too attached..._hero_." The General sneered, and shouldered his way by Watson, entering the tent to take the next shift. Watson had to use his cane to rebalance himself, and clutching very tightly, he used his self-control to _not_ to turn around and beat the General into a bloody pulp, but focused on the stars. In fact, he had to focus so much that he ran straight into another solider.

Stuttering an apology, Watson tried to continue to his tent, but the man stopped him, and twisted the cane out of Watson's hands, throwing it to the ground. Watson picked it back up, and suddenly dirt flew into his face, and the solider muttered: "So, this is the doctor taking care of my brother? A _cripple_?"

A thick hand suddenly grasped Watson's shirt, and he was literally_ lifted_ off the ground by a extremely muscled man with dark hair and a beard. His eyes shone icily in the moonlight. _Nothing like his brother's_, Watson added to himself: Walter's were cold and unfeeling.

"I assure you, Mr. Gladstone, I'm going to do the best I can." Watson met Walter's eyes, and shouldered past him, bouncing off a little and realigning himself once more to walk forward. He heard Walter mutter, 'weakling' and suddenly something in Watson had finally _had_ it!

_Weakling, am I?_

"Your brother is a fantastic solider." Watson said steely, and then listened. _Wooosh-_ Watson heard the air rush as Walter turned and punched for him- but Watson was ready. Twisting his cane around in the air, he smashed it into Walter's knuckles, listening to the satisfying crunch of breaking bone with a smile. Walter let out a yell, and cursed Watson out- threatening that if anything ever happened to his brother, he'd _kill _him. _Weakling that_. Watson thought, continuing to his tent. He then called over his shoulder at Walter. "You might want to have the General look at that hand."

_Later That Night…_

After being asleep for a few hours, Watson welcomed the music that filled his head, but suddenly, a blistering loud scream tore through the humid night and he awoke with a gasp. _James!_ Watson thought immediately, stumbling out of his tent and running towards the grounds' hospital. Suddenly, a horrid stinging sensation occurred in his wrist- that twisted boilingly up the vein in his arm and to his heart. Yelling out in pain, Watson shuddered to his knees, grasping at his wrist and rubbing profusely up and down his arm- desperate to stop the pain. But it kept going, channeling throughout his body…until suddenly, Watson's face met the ground very quickly and the world went black…

_England Time.._

Holmes took a few steps back as Watson awoken, blinking rapidly and rubbing his arm continuously. He looked at Holmes with cloudy eyes and a blank face. He didn't remember him- and in fact, still thought he was in the army. Holmes played along, using his voice to try to get through what he needed. _Besides_, Holmes thought to himself, in an attempt to not feel ridiculous. _What other choice have I..?_

_In Watson's mind.._

Watson groaned and opened his eyes to darkness. It was still nighttime and the stars shone brightly above in the sapphire sky. He grabbed his arm, rubbing the vein up and down again, the burning slowly fading away. _What the...? The scream! James!_ Watson's thoughts rushed like the blood to his head, as he tried to make it to his feet, but he stumbled, and suddenly a stronger hand caught him.

"Need some help there, mate?" Watson looked up at his support. The man before him he had never seen before, but held a curious air. He had dark hair and stubble around his jaw. His dark eyes were calculating, and cold, studying Watson- making him feel utterly and completely self-conscious within seconds of looking up. Once more his lips tried to form a word- he _knew_ him. Somehow, he knew him- but yet...he didn't. Watson's mind flipped around in his skull. _What the __devil__ is happening to me?_

"Yes, thank you..." Watson tested, grabbing his walking stick and steadying himself. _Was this man new here? Never mind, I've got to check on the patients!_ Watson started to run forward again, but the stranger caught him again, pulling his shirt.

"Where do you think you're going?" Watson could no longer make out any details of him in the silhouettes of the trees. Watson brushed his hand off-

"The screaming? Didn't you hear it? I've got to check on the wounded!" This news seemed to catch the solider completely off guard. Watson stiffened. _Maybe I am just going mad.._

_In London_,

Holmes watched as his roommate's breath caught and he wheezed out, asking about screaming. Holmes thought quickly- _Don't distress him- think, to what he's said. Wounded, he's not just a solider out here to kill- he's a doctor there- his leg is hurt now, __more __than before, I can see the way he stands- it's like it's fresh, my God, did he just flashback to it being injured? How fascinating is the human brain to conjure up and feel such events once more._ Holmes waved away the idea, and shifted, grasping Watson's arm and guiding him into a chair he had set up for their game. Holmes sat across from him.

_Watson looked on:_ watching the strange man lead him towards a make shift table and chairs. Watson sat down, slightly trembling. _Please tell me you've heard the screams._ The other man sat down too, strangely pulling his fingers together into some thinking design. Watson was fascinated.

_Make up something_, Holmes thought quickly, _you need to learn this fast_. _You've got twenty minutes at best._ Pulling apart his anxious hands, Holmes laughed, posing his face into a smile: "Ohh, yes, _that_ screaming- ah, it, it seems that the other surgeons here have decided to do some late night operating on some unfortunate man. It's nothing that concerns you- not to worry!"

Watson sighed, and rubbed a hand across his face. He noticed the hum of mosquitoes and the sweat already misting in the air- even at night, this place was _hell._

"Ah...well, thank you very much for notifying me. Now, are you, uh, hurt, or anything of that matter I may do for you? You seem…if I may say so without offence, a little _new_, here."

The man chuckled from the darkness grasping about the table. Then a blazing spark met Watson's eyes', and a pipe was lit. It made the circles under the other man's eyes much more apparent. Holmes waved his arm, and blew some smoke out of his mouth- and for some odd reason, Watson recognized somehow that he was stalling...

"Yes, I've just shipped in. New recruit and all. Would you like a cigarette- cigar?" Watson shrank away from the smoke- it made it incredibly hard to breathe.

"No, nasty habit. I don't usually." Holmes laughed at this, and quickly moved on to other matters. Holmes quickly scourged through his jacket, tossing a paper clip, newspapers, and his box of matches on the table, and then placed them in a peculiar order, as if the stranger couldn't help himself but place them as so. A strange scene filled Watson's mind: A sense of déjà vu - of a room, with many odd items arranged and scattered. Though, who's room, and where- he hadn't a clue. Then the image was gone, and wavered around Watson's head- like the smoke. Transparent and untouchable.

"So my friend, now that we're acquainted-"

"Acquainted? You don't know even know my name!"

"Ah yes," Holmes messed with the collar of his shirt nervously. "Well, you're a well known doctor here. Watson, is it?" Watson's face blushed a little in the dark- though he didn't know why. _I don't even know this man, why should his praise matter?_

Watson let out a bitter laugh. "Indeed, I am Doctor John Watson, but, I'm more known for my leg." He twisted down and touched the back of his wound, as if to remind himself all of this was _real_ and he wasn't just going insane. He noticed the dark-haired man's brows sulk a minute and then rise back up.

"Well, that's not what I heard when I stepped off the boat. Now, I have a favour to ask. The other men back in my station are down right _geniuses_ at gambling, and I was wondering if you could give me any pointers so I may at least own _one_ item of clothing for when I do get back to England."

Holmes pulled out a pack of cards, and set them up accordingly, and Watson cut the deck, a little perplexed at the rapid subject jumping.

"Sure, I'd be happy to go around- doctors here are as terrible at _cards _as they are at writing their own signatures." Holmes smirked a little.

"I say Watson, you're much funnier when you're ill-" Watson's eyes widened and Holmes cut himself off.

"Wha-?" Holmes dived into his pocket, and pulled out a small, melting wax candle, placing it in the middle of the old table, and lit it.

"So, rightly dreadful weather we're having lately eh? Alright, so, what do you wager?" Watson tried to keep up- this man was so _very_ strange. Watson shifted around in his pockets- pulling out a few coins, a pencil pad, a pen, and a stray button. Holmes did the same, though- to Watson's great surprise- he pulled no other odd objects from his coat, and simply shrugged nonchalantly, and then pulled himself under the table and came back up with his shoe. Watson had the strangest feeling again that was telling him he _shouldn't_ feel surprised.

Watson studied the obscure pile a minute. "All...right then, start your hand and I'll pull first."

Holmes listened carefully for several minutes, watching and memorizing all of Watson's checks and tips. But even after the first minute, Holmes knew he had to be particularly careful not to miss even the slightest of details. He didn't realize it himself, but he had missed the doctor an incredible amount, and he found it was deeply relieving just to hear his voice once more, and see his eyes looking less cloudy blue as they lit up as he spoke of his addiction.

Soon, as Holmes saw in his ever-tinkering mind, that his shot was beginning to wear off, he started his deal, and very quickly he realized that he wasn't too bad at gambling.

"Don't ever cheat," Watson said, coughing again into his hand, "Even if you're desperate." His blue eyes' dug into Holmes' brown ones. "If they catch you- they _will _catch you. It's happened to me before."

Holmes nodded slightly, trying not to smile whilst remembering all the times he had found Watson blue and purple in some alley, or that he'd go to simply watch Watson play (_Being surrounded by people with highly addictive personalities often leads to entertaining experiences, _Holmes thought to himself) and have to watch his partner's back over a couple of bills.

Holmes quickly raised the stakes higher, but after padding around, he found he had nothing left to give. Then an idea hit him, and he pulled his favorite pipe out of his mouth, snuffing out the flame, and set it in the pile. Watson raised an eyebrow at him. Holmes shrugged in the darkness, and raised his legs to rest them on another chair, leaning back carelessly.

"You sure you want to bet that?"

"Nasty habit, really." Holmes said, his face serious but his eyes' shining. Watson laughed once more, and quickly strapped off his boots, placing them on the table.

"_You_ sure you want to bet those?" Holmes raised his eyebrow.

"I don't usually lose." Watson said confidently. Holmes nodded to himself, and quickly switched around the cards in his hand. Watson was confused. _It didn't matter what he does to them- the cards won't magically change._

"You're rather…_eccentric_. Aren't you?" Watson asked contemplatively, staring across the flickering candlelight at the stranger in the dark. He could see him grinning in the shadows.

"Usually." Holmes responded, dealing his card. He then turned it over using his palm. Suddenly Holmes' brows furrowed. "You know, this is probably the only time I'll ever beat you at gambling." He chuckled softly.

Watson laughed with him, until the phrase of the question struck him funnily. "What do you mean? Everyone loses sometimes. But I'm sure if you keep practicing, you'll get better. We can deal a lot if you'd like." His face lit up, like a golden retriever that's just gotten praise from his new master. "Now that I know you're around."

He paused for a moment, staring off into the distance- far, far across the campgrounds where other soldiers lay sleeping, then to the field hospital. Holmes swore that if his partner had a tail, he'd have seen it drooping. "It's hard to…find…friendly people, around here."

Holmes nodded sullenly from across the table. "Well, isn't that much like the world?- You just have to find that one bookmark in a stack of literature books."

"What a strange idiom." Watson commented, more to himself, while flicking out a card and shifting it to his other hand. Holmes laughed from his chair, pulling off a sock and throwing it on to the table; raising his bet. Watson did the same.

"Ah yes, well, I've been called that by many people." Watson laughed, but his saddened expression alarmed Holmes. _In England Time,_ Holmes placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, though quite unsure if he could even feel it.

"I'll always been around old boy- you'll…you'll know it when you see me." Watson smiled for a moment, shaking his head.

"It's- it's the funniest thing, considering I just met you now and all…but… I swear it's- it's like- like I know you, from somewhere." Watson laid all his cards out from across the table. "Can...can I ask you a question?"

_In London Time_..

Holmes twisted nervously in his chair- _obviously he doesn't remember me, so I shouldn't do anything to upset his subconscious. Don't say anything. Don't- don't- don't-_

"Do you play the violin?" In the dark, Watson saw the other soldier's eyes light up, but a painful looking expression crossed his face, debating- and then suddenly, he said something that left them both in a long silence. One in shame, and the other in confusion.

"Yes! I do in fact! Often very late at night or early in the morning." Holmes clasped a hand over his mouth, biting his knuckles. Watson took a deep breath, and although he was unsure if it was real, his brows' furrowing, he spoke.

"I've…I've heard your music. It's very, very beautiful." The other solider sat further back in his chair, crossing his arms, his eyes' guarded once more. Watson could tell he was thinking- and that struck him odd. _It was like I've seen that pose a thousand times before..._

"T-thank you." Holmes stuttered out quietly, and then he poured his cards across the table. "And, old chap, I do believe I've just won." Watson stared at his hand, and realized that the other man was right. _Well, there goes the socks for my shoes. And my shoes._ Suddenly Watson's world spun, and he felt terribly sick to his stomach.

Holmes noticed Watson's reaction and checked the time, and realized he merely had seconds before the drug wore off, and he'd never risk jolting in another one. He quickly helped Watson's up and led him back to his bed, helping him lay down. Holmes' noticed Watson was trembling immensely, and sweating. He placed his hand across his friend's forehead, only to find it burning hot. _No, _Holmes thought_, he's getting worse!_

"Good game, Watson. Thank you for, for teaching me." Everything was disappearing in Watson's word, and all he could tell was that man was suddenly up in a hurry, collecting only _his_ things. His peripheral vision blurred, and he had trouble speaking. Desperate, he extended his hand. He needed this man to stay- he didn't know why, but he _needed_ him to! Suddenly the pain shot back up his arm but he continued to extend it forward, gritting his teeth. Holmes shook his friend's trembling hand.

"Wait! Please…your name, I never got it," Watson coughed up, "At least tell me that?"

"It's...it's Sherlock," Holmes said, too caught up _not_ to tell Watson anything he wanted.

"S-s-herlock. A name just as ec-eccentric as you are." Watson coughed out, knowing he'd forget. He grasped the stranger's hand tighter.

Holmes laughed sadly, trying to keep himself grounded.

_Holmes' View…_

Holmes watched as he and Watson shook hands. The adrenaline wore off in a huge crash, as Watson's eyes drooped and his words slurred, his teeth gritted in pain. But that look in his eyes of desperately wanting Holmes to stay was _killing_ the deceive. The grip on his hand weakened.

"When…will I meet… you…again…?" Watson fought to keep his eyes' open, darkness consuming him. Holmes swallowed nervously, wondering how to get through to his best friend.

"Soon. I promise you, Watson. Soon." The grip was then completely gone, and so was Watson- his breathing short, and laborious once more. Holmes quickly ran for the door, thinking all of Watson's tactics over. _I'll get you help soon, my friend. Just a bit more time.._

The door softly shut and Holmes took the stairs three at a time, and headed for the front door. The London rain poured on and on, never letting up.

_And if you sing to me sweet until then,_

_I may never sail Virginia again_

_And as this current moves slow for me_

_This much you must know; we'll meet again_

_And I'll have you know I'm scared to death_

_Tell me once again,_

_That you'll love me to the death_

_And should I die, you swear that you will come for me_

_As I fade away, you reach out your hand_

_(And please don't let me go)_

_And please don't let me go_

_(And please don't let me go)_

_And please don't let me go_


	6. Chapter Six

**~*The Chapter Where Watson Learns a Secret, and Holmes Learns His Lesson*~**

"Humming again, Doc?" A far away voice called to Watson. Sprawled out in the dirt, Watson slowly opened his eyes, cursing; his right arm was throbbing.

"James?" The doctor said, looking up. The sky was still a dark blue, and a few fading stars fought to keep their presence with the approaching dawn. Watson rubbed his arm. "What are you doing out of bed?"

James laughed heartily at the good doctor's expression. "I think the better query is, 'What are you doing lying in the dirt?' "

James extended his hand, and helped Watson up. _What in the world happened..._Watson's thoughts were foggy and slow, but he fought to remember. He vaguely remembered a scream...then a feeling of overwhelming protection for James came rushing back, and Watson immediately began examining him: _breathing; regular, heart; sound, nothing infected or broken..._

"I...I heard a scream, coming from the hospital...so I ran to see what the blazes was happening…but, I...I guess I fell." James screwed up his face at the curious explanation, and then tried to hide his confusion.

"Well...I heard a scream too." Watson looked up, anxious. James' blue eyes seemed to fade a little as he spoke. "_Yours_. It's why I ran out here. I waited, carelessly, beforehand, but none of these other dogs seemed to want to help you."

Watson glanced from side to side, his ears ringing. "Well, that's to be expected. I'm not particularly _liked_ here." He swayed a little, unable to keep equilibrium in balance. James' looked alarmed and picked up Watson's walking stick from the ground, brushing it off.

"Here, Doc." James extended Watson's cane to him. Watson's eyes flashed, and he grasped it, feeling the cold, slick, weightless object in his palm, that seemed to make him feel like his legs were led. _How I hate this damned thing..._Watson cursed, twining his way with James back to the field hospital. He leaned on it more heavily than usual, feeling very confused and lethargic; his thoughts dim and unsure. As he walked, James prattled on about some type of new…_something_, but Watson, being much too out of it already, decided against trying to keep up conversationally and only nodded when the boy seemed overly enthusiastic in his manner of speaking.

_For once I didn't hear any of that blasted music_, Watson pondered. _But…something happened. How unusual to wake up so far from my tent. And I'm sure I heard a scream- and I know it __wasn't__ mine. Was I dragged? Attacked? I best be on guard for the rest of today and tomorrow. How…strange_. Watson rubbed his right arm again- and James took notice.

"Hurt yer arm, sir?" Watson stopped at the tent's flap, grasping his arm again, and smiled tiredly at his patient.

"No, no, it's nothing you need to be worried over James," Watson eyed James as he spoke, and saw the lad twitch in pain and reach up to hold his side gingerly. Watson tapped his cane along the floor. "Come on, I knew you shouldn't have been up and moving so rapidly- let me see that wound." Sighing, and looking very much like a child told to come in and do his chores, James dragged his boots along as he made his way to his bed, and sat down, crossing his arms.

"You know how long it's been since I've even _been_ outside Doc? I've forgotten what the air feels like! I miss the action, and campfires, and stories. It's just a bunch of whining, groaning soldiers in here…" Watson chuckled at James' brooding face. _Pouting isn't going to get you __anywhere,__ lad._

"It's been two weeks, at best, since you've been in here. And half of that period of time, I might add, was you fighting for your life over the large quantity of blood you lost." Watson lifted up the boy's shirt to find some of the stitching had re-opened. Watson clicked his tongue nervously along his teeth. "I appreciate you coming to help me as well James, but you've reopened your wound. That could take serious-" James cleared his throat at Watson midstream.

Watson looked, and saw the lad pull out a round, cylindrical container from his pocket and shake it in his hand. James, smirking, then screwed off the top and emptied a pill into his hand, before swallowing it down. Watson raised an eyebrow.

"And what, pray tell- are _those_?" James raised the same eyebrow as Watson in a mock show, and laughed.

"Sheesh; you limp around, hear music, hear screams, pass out in the dirt, all within two weeks, and you treat _me_ like I'm the one that needs to rest?" Watson rubbed a hand along his jaw exasperatingly.

"James, as your doctor, I demand you hand those over immediately." James looked surprised at the sudden authority in Watson's voice.

"But…Doc, I was tellin' you about 'em when we were walkin' back here...the new drug the Medical General gave me? These are it! You nodded your head like it was some bright idea before...man, you're outta it." Watson snapped awake.

"The _General_ gave you new medication?" Watson's eyes widened as James nodded.

"Yeah, he's givin' it to all the men who are recovering quickly. He says it's some iron/calcium type deal, and that if I take 'em regularly, I can be out of this hell hole in no time!"

Watson looked doubtful. "We are not exactly singing show tunes out there lad- this is _war_. You should really be more grateful you are safe in here." _I know I am that you are,_ Watson thought, grasping the container from James' weak hold, and twisting it around in the dimly lit room.

_Curious_, he thought, running a dirt-speckled finger up and down the pill bottle. _No label, no directions, no prescription, no ingredients..._

"And the General just gave you these?" James nodded again, leaning back against the pillows. Watson could see he was struggling to stay up right- whether weak from sudden intense movement or from pain, he wasn't sure.

"Alright. Well, as your doctor, I'm going to go talk to the General. I wasn't aware of such a change, nor do I approve of it. Also, James: I became a doctor to help _half_wits like you get better. Not to ground my sanity. All that you should be concerned of is that I help you get well." He messed up James' hair. Then gripping the bottle tightly and grasping his cane, Watson took a deep breath, and walked towards enemy territory. The General's quarters.

Upon entering the General's quarters, Watson found it entirely filled with smoke and immediately his presence was made known by a heap of coughing. Trying not to let his eyes water, Watson slammed the bottle down on the General's desk, and gritted his teeth. A sinister pair of emerald eyes shone back at him in the shadows.

"Awful early for a visit, isn't it, _Doc_?" The General asked mockingly, clicking his teeth sarcastically over James' nickname for Watson. Watson suddenly found himself gripping his cane tighter in surprised anger. The General leaned forward, his shoulders' thick and his yellow, decaying canines making him appear all the more intimidating.

"If you're here to ask about your lil'…_buddy_, I'll make it simple. The pills are harmless. Though granted, some of the men are just taking placeboes, and some are taking iron. It's all the same to me- we're running lower and lower on supplies every passing day. I decided it's in our best interest in our rank to try to give the recovering patients …a little _hope_."

Watson moved both of his hands on the table, balling them into tight fist, his cane pressing into his palm along with bent, wooden splinters. "Your lack of regards for these ailing men's lives is utterly _shameful_. Not only are you going against the will of their doctors by prescribing medication we weren't even aware that we possessed, but your desperation to give these men fake hope is inconceivable."

The General laughed darkly and suddenly pulled Watson's cane from his grasp, taking it up in both his meaty hands and twisting it around. "Watson, doctors give patients fake hope all the time. It's no new tread-" Watson's blue eyes sparked and he slammed his hands on the desk, yelling out:

"_Quiet_! I'm not here to listen to another one of your _inspiring_ speeches. In my time here, _General_, I've seen you leave men to die, give up on them midlife, and gamble their lives with lies and torment. _I will not stand for this_!"

There was a long silence when Watson's yelling was done. In it, Watson only could hear his own heart racing and the blood pumping in his ears. Then he heard a loud, harsh, _snap_, and his cane was at his feet in two pieces. The General leaned forward, folding his hands.

"That's right, Watson. You _won't_ stand for this." The General laughed a loud, gritty, throaty sound. "Now- get out of my sight until you learn how to address your General properly. And if I find you taking medication from any more of my men, I'll send you back to England with _both _legs injured. _Permanently_."

_Fantastic_, Watson thought to himself begrudgingly. He limped along slowly through the sleeping men as he left the General's office. _I'll have to __be__ extra careful this entire war __lest__ I trip myself up_.

When he reached James' bed, he found the boy long asleep, and he placed the white container on the lad's chest, sighing. Watson then sat down in his usual bedside chair, and felt up his sore arm, running his finger along the vein until, funnily, at his wrist he found a mark where a needle must have entered. Watson flicked his fingers against the area, feeling the small bits of pain shoot up him- until he realized that he was tapping his fingers in time to the violin he heard in his mind.

_They're absolutely right_, Watson decided, leaning back and rubbing his temples, _war does indeed_ _make you insane._

_Meanwhile…_

Holmes paced quickly through the London streets until he found the usual bar Watson and he gambled at. Though, as much as he'd _love_ to punch something, he couldn't bring himself to enter upon the fighting tournament there with the chance of him losing. (_60 win to 40 percent loss; loss being higher than previous __due__ to lack of sleep, lack __of__ self awareness, and convoluted thoughts, _Holmes had deduced about himself.) And/or the possibility of extraordinarily injuring himself, which would inhibit helping Watson. The bar was dark and loud, with deeply scarred wooden tables and drinks of all kinds being slurped and spilled all around. Maneuvering through the crowd, Holmes found he scared the wits out of a young barmaid there with his disheveled looks; but he waved her away- his only sights set on the gambling table in front of him.

Holmes sat down amongst the men there; four large and tattooed blokes, drinking gin from ornate glass bottles. They offered up to the detective a drink as soon as he sat down, but Holmes turned it away, already feeling slightly nauseous from the tint of it on their breath. When Holmes bet in what little money he had, the men laughed. But the game started in, and Holmes mind whirled into action.

_Blonde Gentleman; right handed, sailor, just brought to port, light drinker, 50 percent intoxicated, intentional paranoia: holding his cards at a 90 degree angle, tapping foot with heart beat, 10 in, 20 out, three folds tops, new gambler, shouldn't be a- oh, but his eyes. How strange. _Holmes de-focused as he pulled his cards in and doubled them up, sliding them out between his fingers. (Holmes couldn't see it, but the men around him certainly gave him odd looks.) He dealt his cards out as effectively as he presumed Watson would have done, but Holmes just couldn't help himself- _glancing at the way the blonde man is tinting his eyes, the man across from me is hiding a card in his shirt's pocket. Cheating...?_

Holmes slowly felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. _Oh no, cheating- this, this can't be right…_he turned his attention to his right.

The man beside him was easily the biggest out of the four- he had graying hair and stubble lining up his throat. A long snake intertwined with another, Holmes noticed, that raced down the man's chest and left arm, hooking around his middle finger. _Snakes, _Holmes thought_, biblical reference. Funny for such a traveled man to fear such things, but snakes represent the devil, and from what I can tell of the size it is a representation of a sin, but why the left arm? '__Thou shalt do right the creator...__' right, so then if it's left it's still subtle symbolism...left...left is where the heart in positioned in the human chest- so that must mean this man has committed adultery…_Suddenly the snaked man glanced at Holmes', and Holmes scrambled on his turn to go- but not before noticing a card hidden in the man's belt loop.

Holmes looked further across the table to the man sitting next to the first 'cheater' Holmes had discovered, and saw the name 'Delilah' tattooed on his arm. In the blink of an eye, Holmes had an idea.

"So, are any of you gentlemen married?" The rest continued tossing out cards, and the blonde spoke first.

"Nah, but I met this gal once in Ire-" the snaked man interrupted him.

"Nick, there ain't a soul here that wants to hear about your 'worldly travels.'" Holmes noticed how the snaked man took control of such talk- _perfect_.

"Well you's talk of all the women you get all the time, and your-" The snaked man cut the drunk Blonde off again.

"I'm _what_?"

"Nuthin'."

Silence settled, and Holmes tried stirring the pot again. "So, if I may ask, what made you all get your, uh, interesting tattoos?" The man with the tattoo of 'Delilah' spoke first.

"'m wife. That's her name. I like to always think of her when I'm traveling the seas here." The snaked man rolled his eyes.

"Alf, you always gonna tell that same sob story about the missus'?" 'Delilah' tossed in a card.

"'Course I am. I 'ove 'er. Maybe if you'd try to find a good girl sometime-" The snake man suddenly looked furious- but to Holmes' well trained eye, it was an act. He looked _nervous_.

"There are no such things as 'good' women, Alf. Unless you're counting the bar maids." The snake man laughed, but the man named Alf now looked uncomfortable.

"How could you say such a thing, mate? You were my best man at my wedding." The cards kept flipping in. Holmes' made his predetermined move.

"Ah, you two know each other?" Alf nodded and the snaked man took another shot of gin out of nervousness.

"Indeed, mate, since we was kids- now we sail together as well." The snake man grunted, and tried to change the subject.

"Mm, I got my tattoo from the natives off an island in the Atlantic." Alf suddenly looked confused, and he actually moved closer to the blonde and the snaked man sitting near Holmes.

"Wait- wha? But mate, you told me you got it-" Holmes made his move, tuning out other men as he tried his hand at cheating. He knew he had no other way to win the money but try.

Trying to fold a winning hand from what he had gathered into his shirt, Holmes' hand was suddenly grabbed and crush in someone's fist while another hand gripped his hair slammed his head into the table. A deep voice was in his ear, and Holmes' recognized the voice of Alf.

"Trying to _cheat_, was we captn'?" Holmes thought fast and decided to make the conclusion of his plan known.

"Well, _mate_, I wouldn't accuse me of such infidelity, but the fellow next to you has known ventral knowledge of your wife."

Suddenly Alf punched the blonde hard in the gut, and the man with snakes wrapping around his middle finger gripped Holmes by the front of his shirt, finally figuring out what Holmes was planning. The detective tried to cringe away from the sour smell of his breath, but still called over the brute's shoulder. "No! No, my good man, I meant this man, _here_, he's-" suddenly both Holmes and his attacker were both tackled, and a full out bar brawl began.

Slipping out a loosen grip, and crawling away beneath the tables, and chairs, Holmes' did his best to make it for door, but before he knew it, he was hooked like a fish by the foot, and hoisted in the air, the four men once more around him. They gave him a shake and the money he had collected fell from his pockets.

_Hypocrites_, was the one word that flew through Sherlock's mind as the men threw each blow harder and harder against his ribs, and then he felt his back smash against the back alley wall as they left him there. Grateful that they hadn't done any more to him, Holmes' happily laid there in the dirt- that is until, the drunken blonde of the group of men came back out, and decided to get some revenge for being punched wrongly before. The man's boot met Holmes' face. "_Dammit Watson!" _Holmes yelled out apon impact- and then everything went black.

Unknown to the unconscious Holmes' however, he didn't feel soft hands lift him from off the ground a few minutes later and help him to a safer place…

_Watson's current condition…_

Although Holmes' was trying his hardest, and Mrs. Hudson worried to and fro throughout the day and night, tending to whatever she could do for the ever dehydrating Doctor Watson, his fever still was rising, going now to 104. And the further it rose, the faster the days went in Watson's deeply unconscious mind..., his breathing shallow, and Holmes, even whilst unconscious, anxiously imagined ways of Watson attacking again in fevered delusions, doing god knows what to poor Mrs. Hudson…

_Back at Camp, three weeks later…._

Although Watson's injured foot ached and smarted more than ever, he refused to let the General win, and never took up another cane. He simply limped around when the situation employed, or sat when he could- though he could feel the sympathetic and humorous expressions of the other medical staff. He hated relying on that damn thing- _hated_ it! As if he hadn't enough to deal with, having to look like an old man, in the prime of his life? Never! Watson resented it, despised it, and as if fate weren't against him enough…the pills the General handed out…were _working_. Working so much in fact, that James was soon strong enough to become Watson's _assistant,_ (as the General had mockingly offered to James one evening.) Although, James still had to spend his nights resting in the field hospital. Watson, as happy as he was to have someone to talk to and go about his day with, couldn't shake this undying feeling of emotional discomfort.

At first, he felt what most people felt around camp with ever the conversationalist James: _annoyance_...(_Granted, he's just bored and out of place being in a camp of older men...it's what's natural..._) But there was another feeling Watson just couldn't put his finger on…

_I shan't be so resentful_, Watson tried to reason with himself one morning. _James is a fine young lad...I'm sure he'll be fine out there..._Watson tried to block the painfully gruesome images out of his mind of the dying soldiers, along with the day he had found James. _The boy's smart, and…_Watson replayed again the times James had spun around Watson's cane and hit his wound. Or the time James tripped and landed on a man with a splint in his leg…or when James was 'just trying to help' and ended up not handing Watson his medical knife and nearly dropped it between some terrified bloke's eyes…

One particular evening though, just as the sun was setting, Watson was sitting by a decaying tree, listening to the howling wind pick up the sand around his legs. Seeing such a beautiful sight brought that strange word back to Watson's lips. He had once shared such a view with someone…someone…who…who…._Hol_-

"Doctor Watson!" James cried out loudly, making his way over to the muttering doctor. _So close_, Watson thought, pulling his brows together in aggravation.

"James," Watson greeted the boy as he stumbled and sat down beside him. "What's all the yelling about?"

"I, uh…I um..." James stammered. Watson glanced behind the nervous lad and saw him holding something behind his back.

"James, I know you're excited about going back onto the field," Watson grimaced in his mind; he didn't like to admit it, but he was _horrified _of the idea of letting James go back out there. "But you can't just carry a gun around…you _do_ remember what happened last time?"

"N-no, Doc, well I mean, yes, yes I remember, it's just, I, uh, I made..." Watson raised an eyebrow at the suddenly shy James. James fidgeted, nervous, and slowly brought out his hands from behind his back, and presented a new cane to him. Watson's jaw dropped open. _I...I can't believe it…_

"I know, I know h-how much you hate using canes and things l-like this, but I just, I want you know that...that…that Doc, you're the _strongest_ person I've ever seen with, or without, some walkin' stick!" James, blushing, turned the cane over in his hand. It was the dark colour of tree bark, almost like red birch or the rusty mane of a Chester colt, but it shone glossily in the fading light. Watson took it gingerly, his eyes' wide…

"It's…it's _beautiful_…where ever did you get such a craftsmen here?" James embarrassingly ran a hand along the nape and back of his neck.

"I, um, I made it myself. There's a lot of old trees fallin' apart here...you know? Gloss wasn't too hard...just some boiled candle wax.." Watson tested it along the ground. It was easy to move, but still had some weight to it, which- for once- Watson didn't mind. It was almost like an immediate extension of himself. He didn't feel so awkward using this one.

"Y-you made such a prize?" Watson stammered out. James nodded rapidly.

"I grew up on an old farm, my brother and I, and I just kinda learned the habit of fixing broken things using what we had...so, I found I'm not too shabby at carving wood n' all.."

Watson was speechless. He had never received such a wonderful gift before. His view of James suddenly shifted, and he saw now; James really was more of a good man than people gave him credit for.

"James...thank you. It's fantastic. I'll use it right now- and-" James suddenly gripped the end of the cane, and pulled, and suddenly the cane's end slid off. In its place, glinting brightly through the light cracks', filtering through the branches of the trees, was a smooth, and masterly sharpened blade.

"It's _war_, remember? We're...uh, we're not exactly singing show tunes." James quoted back to Watson, and the wind settled down around them, the sand shifting softly. "I…I hope it serves you well, sir."

Watson gripped the cane's handle tightly, and brought it up to his forehead, resting it there, saluting James. "Thank you, solider."

James eyes widened, and he took a few steps back in embarrassment, before saluting back and running all the way back to the field hospital. Watson stood there until long after dark, practicing on the broken trees, with the most intuitive gift he had ever gotten.

_Later that night…_

Exhausted from fencing with a few soldiers around camp, it took _a lot_ of grunting, stumbling, and snapping of branches and twigs to finally stir Watson from his sleep. Remember his excursion of waking up in the dirt before, he reached for his cane, pulling out the blade, and aiming in straight at his tent's opening. Suddenly after a nerve shattering silence, James tumbled in through the flap.

"Hey Doc, you're awake!" Watson blinked in ultimate surprise.

"James? James! Get out of my tent."

"No! Do you've any idea how boring it is in that hospital? Especially at _night_?"

"James, get out, please."

"_Please_?"

"James!" Watson said exasperated, pulling his palm to his forehead. He put the sword that went with his cane down, allowing James more room to come inside.

"Come on; come on, how much company do you ever get around here, huh?" James crawled in, and sat down Indian style- "I love what you've done with the place, Doc: it's nearly as boring in here as it is in that blasted medic room."

Watson sighed again, _this lad will be the bane of me_…Watson turned back over, pressing himself against the wall. _This isn't happening..._ Luckily for Watson, he didn't have to drown out James' chatter for long- the lad was usually silent. And soon, Watson found himself falling asleep once more...

"Hey, Doc, can you kept a secret?" James said, poking at Watson as he slept. Watson mumbled and turned over, but James was persistent. "Come on! I listen to your little symphonies all the while, at least lend me this!"

Sighing, Watson turned back over and stared at the boy sleepily, his blue eyes dark. "Mm?"

James reached down his shirt and pulled out a beat up golden locket, tarnished and fading, and began fumbling with its lock. Watson waited a few moments, taping his fingers along the blankets and dirt. James grumbled and mumbled, twisting and contorting- finally Watson held out his hand. Trying not to blush, James handed it to him, and Watson pulled himself up into a sitting position, leaning against the wall of the tent; and opened the locket nearly immediately. He couldn't see the picture inside it, but James took it back and sighed contently.

"Isn't she beautiful, Doc?" Watson glanced back, confused.

"I'll take your word that she is James, who ever she might be-" James suddenly shot his arm out, gripping Watson across the shoulders, and the darkness in the tent filled with a small flame. James held the lit match up with one hand, and his locket with the other.

"No, no that won't do- You just gotta see her, you just gotta!" Watson, unable to go against the boy's genuine excitement that seemed to pour from every fiber of his being- _That __can't__ be healthy_, Watson rethought,- and studied the frame. In the minute, twisting light, Watson could see that; _yes, this young woman was indeed, incredibly beautiful- her dark hair curled down her shoulders, her pale cheeks defined daintily, her soft lips parted slightly, her __deep__ eyes staring back longingly-_ Suddenly the locket snapped close and the light was gone.

Watson snapped out of it; finding himself involuntarily blushing at the maiden when she was probably far across the sea and countries away. Watson shook his head, and could make out James pulling the locket close to his chest, his eyes' shining brightly as the moonlight glinted off the deep gold of his trinket.

"Her name is Natalie Morgan, and she's as intelligent as she is beautiful. I've known her since I was a child…we grew up together, and… and I'm gonna…_gonna_..." his voice trailed off into a whisper. Watson honestly wondered if it was worth staying up any longer and listening to the obviously love struck boy. Suddenly James' back hit the ground with an 'oomf' and Watson glanced down to find himself looking at James from an upside-down perspective. Watson picked up his cane, and whilst bending one of his knees to hide it, tapped James on the noggin. James grinned to himself, and Watson couldn't help but laugh.

"You musta had someone you've fallen head over heels with...or did all the medical studying and school leave no time for it?" James winked and Watson shook his head. _No one yet..._Watson thought to himself, though admittedly, he felt a little sad. Why _didn't_ he have someone..?

"'m gonna ask 'er to marry 'e.." James mumbled shyly, pressing his cheek into the necklace. Watson stared at the boy for a minute, and then 'heh'd.

"Seems like a long time to wait, lad." Watson observed. James leaped up, alarmed. "Y-you think…I'm too late?"

Watson shrugged slightly, and turned away, but James caught him by the arm. "No! Oh no, Doc, please, am I too late?"

Watson apathy was startled by the distressed look on James' face, and Watson tried to reason. "Well, lad, no one has any idea how long this war is going to last, or how long we will be here. Let alone get back to London. I...I think, if you're serious as you say about your proposal, you should write to her."

"Well, if- if I'm to write her, I'll need a pen." Watson pulled one from his pocket. James raised an eyebrow. He then sat down at the small desk, fingering the cracks. "And paper...?" Immediately Watson tossed a pack onto the desk. James was impressed.

"I, uh, have a habit of taking notes on happenings around me." Watson blushed. James nodded excitedly, and leaned over the desk. Chuckling to himself, Watson made himself comfortable once again amongst the blankets, pulling out an old deteriorating journal and writing down his random thought and scribbles.

After an hour had passed, Watson looked up from his book to find James hadn't moved an inch, or wrote much more than _James Gladstone_ on the paper. The young solider jumped when Watson clasped his shoulder.

"So nervous that you can't get more than your name down, lad?" James nodded slowly, his eyes glancing everywhere but at Watson. _Strange_...Watson thought. Watson turned back slowly to where he was laying, but stopped abruptly when he heard James sounding out 'L-o-n-d-o-n'… Alarmed, Watson turned back to James.

"James," Watson asked, pulling open his journal in front of the lad. "Can you read to me the opening stature of the entry I just made? I want to make sure I didn't misstate anything." James looked anxiously at the page, and his eyes scanned the sentences at a very, very slow pace.

"It- it looks find to me, Doc, I mean…it's your journal, you know? It's whatever you hear, not me." Watson nodded, but quickly snatched up his pen and shoved it into James' hand.

"Fair enough, but could you take a quick note for me?" James tried to protest, but Watson was already talking, and James scrambled to make letters on the page. _It can't b_e...Watson thought._..it just can't.._

"D-o-c-t-o-r" Watson spelled out, and when he glanced back, James wouldn't look him in the eye. Watson sighed when it finally dawned on him, and he placed his hand on James' shoulders, not wanting to be too hard on him.

Finally, James looked Watson in the eye and opened his mouth, his voice hoarse, and shaky; but he just knew Watson knew. He trusted Watson more than he would ever say- he knew he could keep a secret.

"No…no…Doc, I can't read…remember the barn I mentioned...? I worked out in the horse stables when I was young...I was never taught more than street signs and signatures. It's…another reason why I had to follow my brother here. I couldn't survive anywhere else."

Watson sat down in shock, and ran his fingers through his hair, "James, that's impossible. There are procedures, common standardized tests for _this_ mission, so illiterate people can't-"

"My brother. My brother, he...he taught me everything. Everything I know. How to cheat them. He said that anything I didn't know, wouldn't matter as long as I copied what everyone else did, or asked him to write it for me." James sighed, pressing one of his fingertips into the pen's point, and then staring at the dot.

"How come your brother can read, and you cannot?" Watson asked, pulling a second chair over to the desk. James sighed, and placed his hands on either side of his head, shaking.

"He was just always more intelligent." Watson's fists clenched, and he fumed at the thought. "Sometimes, he talks about some kind of money our folks left us. I dunno. We always seemed poor to me."

_He's after a fortune he doesn't wish to share with any of his kin...?_ Watson thought, _I really am in hell when brothers kill each other off in war for money..._

"Oh God, oh God, Doc, what am I gonna do? How can I ever propose to Natalie now?" James squirmed in his seat- though it looked more to Watson like some kind of spasm.

"Don't worry." Watson said, reaching up and placing the pen back in James hands. "I'll help you write the proposal letter. It'll be fine. I promise." The look of unlimited gratitude Watson received from James after he had made the promise, Watson would never forget.

"Thanks, Doc." James smiled, and for the rest of the night, until dawn, Watson helped James write out his proposal letter and by dawn, they were finally finished. Ruffling James' hair, Watson rose from his chair and stretched, and James did the same, pulling out one of his pills and swallowing.

"Alright, I'll have it sent out next mail drop." James jumped a little, and his face lit up in happiness.

"Oh thank you! Thank you SO, much Doct-" suddenly James stopped, his face flushing. Watson turned around, and noticed James went still.

"Lad? James?" Watson stumbled the distance, and grasped James' shoulders, giving him a shake. Then James' eyes' rolled up into the back of his head, and foam suddenly arose from his mouth. Alarmed Watson quickly reached for the pill down the boy's throat, but it was far too late. And then it all hit Watson hard and fast. _Poison_.

Grasping James up in his arms, Watson quickly ran for the closet river, covering much more distance than he thought was humanly possible. Watson thought to rush to the field hospital first; but he remembered General's words; his sinister laugh. _Him and his cracked team of doctors wouldn't give any help_. _Of course! OF COURSE! Poison? Why didn't I see it sooner? No label, no instructions, no way to know, it's the perfect murder.._

Laying James down, he quickly forced the river water into the boy's mouth, and then began resuscitation, and managed to get James to breath faintly, his eyes' blurring in and out of view. Watson forced more water down James' throat, and then regrettably, had to punch him hard to make him vomit. Once James did, Watson could already tell it wasn't going to be enough- _the General must have started the poison capsules for weeks, and his system was going…_Watson was going to need more help than this...

"_DAMN IT_!" Watson yelled, and he quickly moved James close to the river, and then stumbled away from him, along the shore towards camp, when suddenly he heard a noise that made his heart stop.

"_Doctor Watson!"_

_Splash!_

Watson looked back, and quickly saw James was gone, and the river rushed on and on. Watson leaped back towards the water, and dove in, his eyes scanning, and his lungs screaming for air, but he kept looking, and looking: James was nowhere to be found. Dragging himself onto land, Watson screamed for James, but there was no answer. Just the continual rushing of the rapidly moving water and Watson's own ragged breathing in his ears.

_He is illiterate_, Watson yelled in his mind, sweat mixing with tears he didn't know he was crying, _and the General knew it. The General killed him! But why? WHY?_

Running harder along the river's shore, his leg protesting in huge amounts of pain, Watson finally made it to where the water slowed down and the river's level only swelled up to his ankles. Watson's bloodshot eyes' scanned and scanned...but James was nowhere to be seen…

_God, I knew I heard him cry out for me…I know it… _Watson dropped to his knees on the river's stony bottom, and his fingers brushed against something smooth. Watson glanced down, and saw James' gold locket, swaying gently in the current, its chain caught on the river's pebbles. Watson picked it up, and just held it in his hands, as he felt the world spin entirely out of his control…


	7. Chapter Seven

_**~*The Chapter Where Holmes Starts His Greatest Mystery Yet*~**_

"_Dammit Watson!" Watson could feel it. Someone screaming for him…the letters changed, and melted into each other- like a ruby wax candle dripping- dripping- dripping- burning the pages of his notes- __ash__ wrapping the air-_

"_Doctor Watson!" _

_Watson, Watson, Watson-Watson-Watson-_ Watson's name screamed through his skull; a stranger's voice calling him- (The word, the word finding him, a person...-_Hol_-), the music; the violins, suddenly clashing and squealing together in a thunderous sound –(Again, and again, it called, it resonated, someone...someone he knew -_Holm_-) that seemed to resonate through the bedridden doctor. Watson threw his arms over his head,-(It was so close, God, Why? Why couldn't he remember? -_Holme_-) sinking further into the water. Beneath the tiny pulses and pulls of the water that touched his minute cells, Watson could feel the water coming together, twisting, fixing, mashing...and then he felt fabric. It was hard to breathe, everything was black, and his eyes' watery. Much like one would feel breathless from emerging from deep within the depths of some ocean; and blind for not being able to clear the water from one's eyes'. He saw the pictures before him, in his mind, coming to life; _the paintings of the rushing river that __drowned James__; the scene of a bloody war that the General stood high above, taunting- -(, The stranger, the violinist, the notes, the pages, the detective, the friend-Holmes!)_

Suddenly Watson sat up, breathing hard. All was still in the small bedroom. All was silent. Then, Watson _screamed_. Another spare gun in his hands, he aimed for the wall- sweat pouring down him, the room wavering in and out of view. Grasping the blankets that seemed to slip through his fingers like liquid, he stood quickly, scrambling to get to the wall before he fell, but it was too late, and his body hit the ground that sent pain racking through him. Shakily, he got to his feet once more, and used what strength he had left to knock down the pictures, and then he aimed and fired at the wall- the bullets cutting in deep, muffling the sound. Watson's conscious brain spoke to him through the haze, and it seemed to keep repeating the same phrase: _It's happening again, again- it's happening again- and I can't stop it- and I can't control it- and the bullets never strike and the pictures never fade- the scars never heal and the people never see, and it's happening again and I can't stop it-_

Watson reached up slowly, feeling the cool wall beneath his burning flesh- feeling the deep holes- and holes, from the other times he was ill and deranged. They were long, and dark, and unnatural. Suddenly the feeling of the wall disappeared, and Watson fell face first back down into the river, the golden necklace still clutched in his hand.

_I know what I must do! _Watson thought, clenching his teeth to stop his tears, and running knee-deep through the rushing water back to camp…

_England time, whilst Watson goes back to the camp of his feverish mind…_

Sherlock Holmes, was a creature of habit- as many of us are. May it be cocaine, or of mixing chemicals together that should _not_ be mixed thereupon, or simply trying to constantly maintain an air of elegance about him whilst in public- these are the manners of the sly detective, which he held to be true and tried to manage with a great vigor.

How Holmes woke up, however, was nothing even _close_ to the latter of his habits- elegance. And sadly for a person with such a mindset as Sherlock Holmes, two out of three simply didn't cut it.

Holmes groaned loudly, his hand flying to his bruised, painfully swollen black eye. He did such a thing so rapidly and suddenly, that he scared the woman, reaching to place ice upon his eye, half to death. The surprised yell she let out made Holmes jump from his lying spot on her bed to the floor in seconds! Hair disheveled, covered in dirt, and hardly able to open his left eye-he tried to look his best from his vintage point upon the floor. Here he failed upon his habit of showing elegance- showing vulnerability in its place, and covering horribly.

"I'm terribly sorry, madam, did I scare you?" The woman shook her head, her dark curls dancing. She stooped down on her knees and pressed the ice block to Holmes' eye.

"Forgive me, sir, but I think it was _I_ that scared _you_." Holmes quickly pulled away, and waved the woman's statement away as well.

"Madam, forgive me, but I am not one to be easily frightened."

"Uh-huh." The woman's dark eyes stared back into Holmes'. "So then, what were you doing there? You don't seem…like the type of man to play unfairly, and then get his face beat in." Holmes blushed slightly.

"You're quite right, I am one to play fair, but you see, I'm in dire need of some money- for a doctor."

"A doctor? Are you ill?"

"No." Holmes responded, tight lipped.

Holmes rose to his feet, and held his hand out awkwardly to the lady below him. She rose too, and Holmes suddenly found himself, face to face, with quite a beautiful woman. The great detective blinked, his eyes memorizing the pure, pearl features of her face- _her parted lips, her __deep__, longing eyes, her raven hair_- and then it all dawned on Holmes.

"Madam, I do dare say that I've seen you before." Holmes walked in a circle about the woman, taking in her dress- _causal, yet good quality_, _her ring finger __occupied_, _married_- _her home is slightly about average livings, but certainly not rich. _The woman turned to meet Holmes, her small hand wrapping about his wrist- taking the detective off guard from being _touched_- and she laughed softly.

"Funny of you to say sir- I've never seen you a day in my life. Where have you seen me, if I may ask?" Holmes concentrated on looking down as the woman spoke, thinking of a way to pull free- he gave a few tempts to full his wrist away awkwardly, but she held on. _Women_! Sherlock thought annoyingly in his head- _you mention one detail of themselves and they're suddenly_ _full of questions- I've got to get to Watson!_

"Madam, I'm entirely grateful for you bringing me here and caring to me whilst I was incapacitated, but I really must be going. My comrade is very ill and I-"

"Watson?" the woman asked quietly, letting go. Holmes' brows raised, and he was anchored to the floor.

"H-how did you know that?" The woman's face flushed and she looked away- somewhere far out the window being gently coated in rain.

"So, you really did say his name…" Although Holmes was desperate for the door- his keen instincts were intrigued.

"Madam?"

"I heard you yell his name as that horrible drunkard hurt you- and I- I rushed to your side. I couldn't leave you there…James' wouldn't have liked a friend of his friend, to be treated as rubbish." She sighed, "Though, that surname is quite possibly common. Maybe you're referring to someone else." She tossed her head discontentedly, and Holmes thought slowly.

"Your husband?" The woman looked surprised as Holmes concluded, and she clasped her thin fingers about her wedding ring.

"Yes. Yes, he w-_is_. He is my husband. James Gladstone. My name is Natalie Gladstone. My husband was very close with a man of the last name as your friend's." Holmes took a seat back down in a chair, and the woman continued to talk- "Your friend, his full name, please…?"

Holmes shifted uncomfortably. "Madam, it's nice to hear that your husband was in hearty _friendship_"- that word slid off Holmes' tongue more bitterly than he'd liked, and it confused him for a moment- "but I really must be going." Holmes arose and walked swiftly for the door, but just as he placed his hand on the cold knob, he heard the woman behind him give out a soft sob.

"I-I understand…" her voice turned into a whispered that Holmes' strained to hear. "James told me he was dead, anyways…"

A slow chill ran down Holmes' spine, and he immediately turned back to the crying woman- a strange anger biting his words.

"John Watson is _not dead_, madam. I'm afraid that quite possibly your husband, has it wrong." The woman was standing before Sherlock before he could even take another breath- the tears on her cheeks already drying up.

"_John Watson_? My god...- did he serve at war?" Holmes blinked- _such rapid mood-swings __cannot__ be natural- even for female creatures._

"Y-yes, he did. The second Afghan war. I presume your husband did the same?" The woman suddenly clutched Holmes' dirty shirt, and pressed her cheek into his chest, sobbing once more. Holmes was frozen on the spot, unable to react.

"M-my g-g-od, I've searched for so _long_. It's him, it couldn't possibly- no! _No_!" She pulled roughly at Holmes' shirt, and then pulled away, pacing the room, her back to the speechless detective. "I've tried everywhere…"

Holmes made once more for the door- _leave this poor woman to her mad delusions!_ But the next thing she said made Holmes peal out in uncanny laughter.

"Even Scotland Yard-"

"Madam," Holmes chuckled, "Putting _any_ trust in Scotland Yard is a fool's gamble." The woman suddenly turned back to Holmes, furious, and reminding him very much so of Mrs. Hudson.

"_Who_ then, _should_ I trust, _sir_? _Who_? There's no one else! I've tried everywhere! _Everywhere_! No one will help me! _No one_!" Her pointer finger struck Holmes' chest, and he quickly wrapped a hand reassuringly about it.

"You should, madam, put such trust in _me_. I am a private detective. My name is Sherlock Holmes." Natalie looked taken aback, as most do, when they finally come face to face with a rare opportunity they had been awaiting for a very long time.

"Proof." The woman said briskly, recovering herself.

"Proof? Of my being a professional-" the woman cut Sherlock off.

"No- of your friend. I need proof that he met James. And that he isn't dead. I don't know if I can trust you- I...I can't do this to myself again, without proof. And where have you seen me before?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "And why, madam, should I entrust to you all this information?"

"Because, if you can prove to me that the man you speak of once knew my beloved James, I will give you the money for a doctor to tend to him." Holmes' eyes went round, and wide. He couldn't believe after all this time he could finally help Watson! If he weren't so unusually disinclined to, he would have hugged Natalie very, very tightly in his arms.

"Madam! Madam! Are you quite certain? I assure you, I'll always be in your deepest, deepest debt and gratitude- Watson is getting weaker by the second so we shan't-"

Natalie cut Holmes' off again. "Proof."

Holmes looked surprised. "Proof? Now?"

"Yes."

"Hurm..." Holmes' ran one hand nervously down the back of his neck. "Well, what shall I begin to try and prove?"

The woman thought for a moment, and then looked Holmes hard in the eyes. "How is it that James thought Watson was dead- and you claim he is not?" Holmes thought hard for a moment- using every ounce of his considerable knowledge to receive his answers quickly. There wasn't a moment to lose!

"Well, it's quite possible for one to think so." Holmes answered, though internally cringing at the talk of his best friend dead once more, "Watson doesn't talk of his war days often, but when he does, he once mentioned coming down with an enteric fever which left him incredibly weak for months. It was after the war, but before he returned to England. I'd imagine most of his comrades in his ranks would have thought him dead for such a long period of absence. And with no address or whereabouts- I'd imagine it'd be hard to track him down."

Natalie returned to looking thoughtful, her eyes dissecting Holmes as Holmes studied her. Her eyes seemed to soften. She stroked the hollow of her neck, and suddenly the image of a younger version of Mrs. Gladstone struck Holmes' mind.

"And proof that he met James?"

"Er, my colleague, he has a necklace of some sort- a war tribute. He keeps it in a back drawer of his desk- I often find it there when I am bored and am trifling through his room. I also sometimes catch him holding it in the light on some lazy afternoons. From the way your hand is placed, it seems that it would fit right there quite nicely. It is gold, and worn from many a wearing. And it has _your_ picture in it. You were quite beautiful then, as you are now- madam- but regardless, I _never _forget a face."

The woman looked awestruck, and her thin fingers slowly curled into a fist. Her eyes shadowed over- her long, twisting hair covered her delicate cheeks. Holmes took a shy step towards her- unsure of how to respond. His hand hovered for a moment, before the woman took it in her own, placing it at the pale hollow of her throat. Her voice was soft as she spoke.

"James used to tell me he looked at that picture every, single day, and night, while in that hellish place…he went missing…a long time ago." Holmes shifted uneasily again in her grasp.

"How long is a 'long time'?

"_Years_."

"Then I suppose it's too late to take out a missing person's ad, eh?" Holmes chuckled, but the woman remained cold. Holmes reevaluated his manners.

"Madam, if you help me cure my friend, I will help you find your husband." The woman looked up at Holmes with such a look of hope, that even the cold-hearted detective felt good for receiving such a chance to improve her life.

"I promise."

Natalie Gladstone simply wiped her eyes on Holmes' sleeve cuff, and made for the door, which Holmes quickly followed suit and opened for her. She took up an umbrella, and used it only about herself.

"Show me that necklace, and I'll give you the money." Holmes stepped out into the rain, rapidly becoming soaked, but when he glanced at Natalie's face, he could see the tears ruining her make up.

"I promise." She whispered.

The two figures quickly disappeared into the London rain...

_Meanwhile__…_

Upon reaching the camp, Watson grabbed his gun from his tent, and began firing it off into the air, creating quite a ruckus. The other soldiers' crawled from out of their tents, and gathered around, complaining for Watson- who looked quite like a torn, wild, madman- to calm down. But he kept firing. _Come on! Come on! _He thought, glancing around. When he thought he had enough attention, Watson stopped, and abruptly dropped his gun.

"Men, soldiers. Patients. You are being _deceived_! Those pills!" Watson quickly ripped a cylinder from one of the men near him, and poured them along the ground-"The ones the General has been handing out, to all of you? It's _poison_! You will _die_ within minutes of physical excitement- the _General_ is planning this! He wants you all to die- and he's going to make it look like you just simply died in battle! I don't know why he's doing this- but I have proof!" Watson quickly held up James' necklace, that shone golden in the setting sun.

The other men glanced around at each other, deeply confused. Some simply laughed, but a straggler ran off and told the General...

Walter suddenly pushed his way from the crowd and confronted Watson. "What the _HELL_ is going on? Blaming a great surgeon like the General for some stupid mistake you made? You crippled excuse for a doctor!" Walter spit on Watson, but Watson continued on, raising his voice.

"I know you all are quite confused but I am telling the truth! This necklace I hold in my hand came from around the neck of young James Gladstone! I know most of you know James, you know he'd NEVER take it off, and the only reason I have it in my possession now is because," Watson gasped, trying to keep a control, "is because he was poisoned!"

Most of the men at camp did, in fact, know James. (Who couldn't, from such a sporadic and charismatic young man?) And they also knew of the necklace, and how strangely protective he was over it. Some men began to sweat a little, Watson noticed. He took a deep breath, and continued on.

"And look around you? James isn't here, is he? He's-" Suddenly the General appeared from behind and signaled at Walter. Walter quickly grabbed for Watson and held Watson's hands behind his back, kicking the gun out of reach. The men gasped and ogled on -The General smiled eagerly with a cigar in his mouth, pacing around the crowd and blowing the run off in Watson's face, making him cough.

"Ah, do go on, Dr. Watson? Do tell us, where dear James Gladstone is…?" His green eyes lit up in an evil spark of emerald, and Watson found himself drowning in his own words...

_I'll…I'll have to tell them..._

Looking around, Watson's eyes met dirty and anxious glances everywhere. Not only did he just offend their General, he now had to tell them of a comrade's death…

"James…James...is…dead." Watson hung his head to hide his grief.

"_James? James is dead?"_ Walter roared; his eyes wide in shock. He threw Watson to the ground, forcing his foot down hard on Watson's ribcage. The look of hatred he gave Watson burned a scar into his heart. Walter suddenly was overcome with a furious rage- his blue eyes turned to piercing ice and his teeth bared. "_I. WILL. KILL. YOU_!"

The General suddenly took charge as Walter and Watson dueled it out- but Walter, being much larger, quickly had Watson pinned and continuously slugged him hard across the face. Tasting the blood in his mouth, Watson strained to hear what the General was saying to the rest of the men- but the _whooshing_ of the blows made his ears ring.

"Gentleman, don't you feel stronger? Better? Healthier?"-crack, crack,-"Don't listen to such a murderer! You know why he's telling you all of this"—crack, crack—"it's because HE killed young Gladstone!"—crack—crack—"doctor you know! And HE killed the boy!"—crack, crack-

"No!" Watson slurred out, his jaw aching, blood flooding from all about his face. ""e's lying! I'd never 'urt James'! I'd-"

"_Murderer_!" Walter screamed, tears falling down his cheeks. "You killed my brother! I just _knew_ there was something wrong with you! Something's wrong with all you goddamn cripples! It's not just your body! It's your _mind_ too!" Walter made a grab for his gun, but luckily the General ordered for some other soldiers to finally pull the raging Walter off of Watson, and hold him back.

Watson scrambled for his gun again, and the General split at Watson's feet.

"We'll give this _murderous traitor, _a whole day's head start. How about it boys?" The crowd around the General burst into cheers and rallies.

"Alright then, _hero_." The General said softly, so only Watson could hear, and then returned to the crowd, "Who ever brings this bastard in to me- cold, and _dead_- gets a _prize_." The General smiled a wicked, nasty smile- his yellow canines sticking out between bleeding gums. _I should kill him now!_ Watson's thoughts screamed, but he decided against it, feeling he'd be overpowered and killed, and fled deep into the humid night with only sandy, broken trees for company.

After a long while of running, Watson turned and swore he could see the emerald eyes of the General watching him from many yards behind him through the thick brush, and he clenched his sore jaw in anger.

_This isn't over…sir._

_At 221b Baker Street..._

Soaked and dripping, Holmes gentlemanly held open the door for Natalie as they both made their way inside. After hanging their coats, Holmes rushed Natalie up the stairs and into Watson's bedroom, only to find Mrs. Hudson blocking the way, her eyes wide in fear. Holmes glanced into the room, and saw it destroyed- _pictures torn, bullets in walls, and the desk smashed open_. From a distance Holmes' masterful eye could tell the necklace was gone. The room was empty.

"Mrs. Hudson...?" Holmes said softly, placing his hands on the landlady's shoulders, who was quite in shock. "Where is Watson…?"

"Gone, Mr. Holmes." She responded, quivering. "_Gone_."


	8. Chapter Eight

**~*The Chapter Where Watson Kicks Some Ass*~**

"Gone?" Holmes repeated, as the two women shouldered past him, his eyes re-scanning the scene. _Gone. _His thoughts concluded. Suddenly the wheels of his mind turned quickly- _evidence, evidence, evidence_- his dark eyes' leapt to the two women that were pacing the room. He sighed, and furrowed his brows together. _They're ruining any potential- oh for pity's sake!_- Holmes walked carefully into Watson's room, and escorted both Mrs. Gladstone, and the shaking Mrs. Hudson out.

"Ladies," Holmes said carefully, "I need you to stay away from his room," Mrs. Hudson protested, but Holmes held up his index finger, "that is until I can collect the whereabouts to where our dear Watson has run himself off to!"

Holmes walked in himself, and paced around the room, twisting the frayed rug beneath his shoes. _The first place Watson was last.._ He walked to Watson's bed, running his fingers delicately over Watson's bed-sheets- matted, disturbed, recklessly thrown, and wet. Holmes lifted the tips of his fingers and studied the moisture. _Sweat, unmistakable- and reliable- he was burning with fever. _Holmes turned back the sheets, and looked carefully- long, dark streaks ran along the mattress- _sweat lines? Interesting, but they're not just occurring there because of Watson staying still- they're_- Holmes moved along the bedside- _the way the dark pattern moves from light to dark- and from the light of the room- the trapped rain, creating the humidity in here- which means trapped liquid, which means_...-

Holmes suddenly dropped to the floor, much to the raised eyebrows of Natalie, peering in to the room_. Any liquid in this room __is__ being kept by the humidity of the storm seeping into the wooden boards. _Holmes watched intensely at the wood, and saw scarcely there the wisps of liquid entering the boards as he traced his index finger along the floor, and it slid. _Sweat, once more._..he studied, then continued sliding in the same direction of the sweat and his finger abruptly stopped.

_Curious_, Holmes thought, rubbing his fingers together, _it ends_. _But…collectively_. He brought himself back up and grabbed Watson's nearly empty water glass from his side table. He then slowly tilted the glass, and dipped the tip of his finger inside. He dropped himself back to his knees, and slid his finger along the edge of the wood that had dried up, tracing the path. Once it was damp enough, he eyed the glass and leaned the water slowly, so that it only spilled apon the path intended. Soon enough, Sherlock Holmes had the path Watson's sweat had provided, as it swept the room.

He crept along the floor, and noticed how it led to the back wall_. So, in mad delusion, Watson knocked down the_- Holmes stopped concluding abruptly. His shocked gaze slowly traced up the wall, and deep into its gaping wounds. _H-how did I not notice these before?_ Holmes' eyes were wide in shock. He dug his pale fingers along the holes, one by one, and then he smelled the gun powder- and it all came flooding back to him.

_Holmes sitting in a chair, staring at the grudge holding Walter Morrlows. "Gave you a scare, did he? You know it's not uncommon for these matters to happen amongst war-folk. He's probably done it before, just with no one around. Does he carry a weapon?"_

_"A pistol. Yes."_

_"Then I can guarantee you __he__ has." The doctor grinned in good humor. _

Holmes rammed his fist hard into the wall, feeling his knuckles pop. He then ran his minutely bleeding fingers nervously through his hair. _How did I not see such things? Such acts of violence? No- of course I've shan't to see! He's hid himself in here- and it could be, possibly, __that my actions are now the cause of him escaping so rapidly__! Could it be that I was so focused in my attempts to cure him physically that I refused to acknowledge his suffering mentally? God, __it's __always__ the smallest details that matter- and he's re-living his war days, damn! Damn! Damn! Some of these shot marks are fresh- and from the search of the room, there's no weapon left behind. Which means he's on the streets- possibly thinking he is fighting __Ghazis__'- with a loaded weapon. But how unlikely is it that he even made it so far in his condition? I- I'm getting much too wound up._ Holmes took a deep breath, his fingers resting on the bridge of his nose.

"The necklace isn't here- you know." A sly voice said, and Holmes turned to see Natalie, standing over the smashed desk, touching the pieces of the crippled wood, and turning them gently over in her pale palm, as if it would disintegrate into a thousand pieces at any moment. Holmes dropped his hand.

"But, your mentioning of a desk, proves true. I see. So, I suppose you're not lying." Her shadowy eyes disappeared into Holmes' own midnight gaze. "Yet."

"Madam, I assure you, everything about what I've told you is true. I have cause to believe that, for some odd reason, Watson took the necklace with him." Mrs. Gladstone turned her head, and made a small noise of sarcasm. Holmes back peddled.

"Didn't I please ask for you not to be in here?" Natalie shook her head, and Holmes could only see her lips moving as a sound of thunder shook the room.

"What?" Holmes walked closer.

"I said, I just had to come in here. I couldn't stand watching the woman out there pace around. It was much too unsettling." Upon hearing this, Holmes led Mrs. Gladstone to the door, and they both walked to the sitting room. _Oh, Nanny_. Holmes thought, suddenly remembering Mrs. Hudson's pain.

The landlady was, indeed, pacing the room with such a speed that Sherlock had to jog a little over to her to get her to respond to his voice. But once Mrs. Hudson turned to face Holmes, he felt a little stab in his chest, as if a small, tiny crack had just occurred in his stone heart. Her hair more ragged, and her eyes' bloodshot, with tears streaming down her face, Mrs. Hudson couldn't speak, and simply leaned into Holmes' chest. After a momentary shock running through both of them, they pulled apart.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes began, "I know you wish to help but…"

Suddenly an obvious notion hit Holmes. "But, wait, in- in fact, Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes grasped the landlady and sat her down gently on a sitting chair. "This is very important, since you were here when Watson arose." Natalie and Holmes sat apart from her, on the couch.

Natalie studied Mrs. Hudson, leaned towards Holmes quizzically, covering her lips with the palm of her hand, so Mrs. Hudson couldn't see them move. "I thought you said your landlady was in control of here and is also '_the Ruler of the Underworld_'?"

Holmes grimaced internally, and returned the gesture. "In my _mind_, perhaps," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Natalie whispered, but Holmes learned back in towards the shivering Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, you were indeed around when Watson awoke, correct?" Mrs. Hudson simply nodded, trying not to break.

"He did not harm you in the process of his-," Holmes waved an anxious hand around the disheveled sitting room," leaving?" Mrs. Hudson's eyes suddenly iced up, and Holmes felt himself instinctively pressing his back into the cushions.

"M-mr. Wats-son would _never_ do such a thing!" Holmes simply threw his hands up in surrender, though his inner eye was pelted with images of Watson pulling the barrel of a gun under his throat.

"I was just asking Mrs. Hudson...but, please remember to the best of your ability now. Did he have a weapon on him?" Mrs. Hudson's teary eyes widened, and her hand covered her mouth.

"Oh god- oh god, I- didn't see one, but that- that was what you found in there, wasn't it, Mr. Holmes? That Mr. Watson is carrying a weapon?" Holmes' brows furrowed, and he nodded slowly. Natalie gasped from her spot.

"Mrs. Hudson, please, please, don't fret. I promise you, I'll find Watson. I'll find him, like I've found every other case. It's practically _don_e, love." Holmes floundered to be consoling, but Mrs. Hudson simply shuddered, and through her teary stare still managed to shake Sherlock Holmes to his core.

"But, this _isn't_ like your every other case, Mr. Holmes. This...this is _Mr. Watson_, we're talking about. Dr. Watson, mad with fever." She pulled her hands up further to her face, biting her lips. "He could _die_ out there Mr. Holmes! Or, or, he could _kill_ someone! He could kill _you_!"

Holmes steeled himself in an attempt to not tremble under the stares all around him. To Sherlock Holmes, it seemed like they simply _knew_ that Watson had nearly attacked him.

Natalie finally spoke. "We should call Scotland Yard." Holmes only laughed bitterly at this- be it rare that he laughed at all.

"My dear, don't you think I've considered such a notion already? Scotland Yard is already a joke. And besides, if you two are to call the police, they'll only be referring you back to me, and it'll be wasted time all around." Holmes stood, and lit his pipe, breathing in the smoke to calm himself.

"That may be so, Mr. Holmes, but don't you think the more help we have to track Watson, the better?" Holmes' nimble fingers dug hard into the pipe as he tried to concentrate.

"Think, about this Mrs. Gladstone, _think_! Did it ever occur to you for one moment that Watson is mad enough with the enemies in his mind? If we send the police force after him, it'll only alert him more to attack."

Natalie went silent, and Holmes quickly made his way to entrance hall. "When did you say Watson left again, Mrs. Hudson?"

"About an hour ago- I...I didn't know what to do. I was...so...so s-s-o shocked. I…I just knew I had to await your return." The landlady took out her handkerchief. _That does it for here._ Holmes thought.

"Well, if I know Watson well enough- and I do," Holmes kicked up an umbrella into his open hand and slapped his cap on. He tried to shove out the moment where Watson had awaked in delusion, and nearly killed him, but it was breaking through, corrupting his thinking process. He shook his head. "His gentle, docile nature that we all treasure him so for is far, far buried." His eyes flashed to Mrs. Hudson's, and she made a small, scared sound.

"With that nature gone, the only persona left is his subconsciously, and tightly controlled anger- for that is where he stores it- he's quite unhealthy with his emotional baggage- That being said; people will die, if they confront him." He ducked his head, and opened the door into the dizzying rain. Natalie walked up quickly towards Holmes, and made for the door, but Holmes threw out his arm across the doorway and stopped her. Natalie glared at him as only a woman can. Holmes smiled deviously, and placed his lips next to her ear.

"My dear, I need you to please stay here." Holmes whispered: his eyes flickered from Natalie's a few times, before Natalie understood the message, and followed his passing glances to the terrified Mrs. Hudson. "Besides the fact that the raving, dangerous lunatic out there on the streets of London is my best friend, I am also finding him for the poor Nan- woman, over there."

Holmes refocused on Mrs. Hudson, who was pacing about the room once more, trembling, and muttering about, and a rushing urge to find Watson even faster shook him. "As much of an annoyance as she is, she's taken care of me- _us_- very well these past years, and I'm afraid Watson means quite a bit to her. And of course, she's mad enough as she is; without all this trouble."

Natalie quickly rose up the handle of her umbrella and shoved it softly into Holmes' bruised chest, making him quietly pause in his rant in pain- "Your _point_, Mr. Holmes?"

"My point _is_, Mrs. Gladstone," Holmes hissed out, "that I need you to stay here and take care of her until I return with Watson. I can't-," his eyes met Mrs. Hudson's and they traced the tears running down her cheeks. He sighed in defeat. " I can't bring myself to leave her alone."

Natalie's gaze met Holmes' steadily. "So, you _do_ have a heart." She remarked, and she roughly shoved her way back towards Mrs. Hudson, hitting Holmes' sore spots again. "Alright, Mr. Holmes. I wish you the best luck in finding your friend, but remember: no necklace, no deal."

"Of course, madam." Holmes said, dipping his hat before closing the door, leaving the thunderous rain to be his only company until he found his companion.

_Meanwhile...the hunt begins for Watson...in his __mind__._

Watson moved nervously through the undergrowth, though the dirt beneath him was hard, and uneven- occasionally he'd hear the sound of some surprised animal- a _horse _it sounded like, (which only fed further into Watson's paranoia about being _mad_), and it'd cause his heart to leap up into his throat and for him to lose his footing. But he had to keep moving, regardless of wild horses, or other beasts. Every snap of a leave was a solider behind him, every movement of the wind was an ambush in the trees. They were coming for him. And running all night only made navigation that much more difficult- fatigue made it harder to think, harder to breathe.

_I'll need more weapons than just a gun_…Watson thought, twisting behind a tree, and glancing back towards camp. It was the next morning by now, and the General's men were on the move. As much as it pained him, Watson thought of the only true weapon he wanted to use- the sword cane James had carved out for him. It hurt. It was like some festering wound- a pain far greater than being shot, than being treated like a criminal by the men you have helped heal. It was to feel like your soul was dying, to have your only friend in your own personal hell killed before your very eyes. Watson had never felt so powerless in all his life. But he knew what he had to do. He had to go back to camp, and get his sword. _At least with a sword_- Watson thought, slipping through the shadows. _You can never run out of ammunition...and besides...it'll be the last place they'll look.._

_In London…_

Holmes made his way through the ever-emptying streets, twisting and twining_. Surely, it shouldn't be this hard_- he turned his head at a walking couple- _I'll just have to ask around to if anyone's seen a mad doctor running around.._

"Excuse me, miss?" A young woman stopped in front of him with an annoyed glare. She didn't want to be held up in such weather.

"Yes?"

"Have you seen a mad man running around recently?" Embarrassingly, Holmes had to practically yell his question over the thunder, and many heads turn his way. The young women simply raised her hand and pointed towards an alleyway. Then, suddenly around him, as if feeling obligated to, several different pairs of hands went up, and all in different directions.

_Or not…_Holmes thought, mumbling a thanks to the kind people around him, and continuing up the streets, and walking passed the marked alley way.

_But if Holmes was only to look twice…_

In that very alleyway, Watson stumbled along, his hand pressing against the tarnished brick wall. His eyes glazed over, his breathing labored- he continued along. Watching such a peculiar sight, a greasy looking young man tapped his friend's shoulder from where they stood- just up ahead of Watson.

"Oy'," the greasy tom said, "Check out that bloke over 'here."

His friend turned his head to glance at Watson, and watched the poor doctor stagger further towards them. He then shrugged his shoulders.

"'eah, I see 'em, what about it?" Tom grinned wide.

"Wot' you mean what about 'em? Just look at 'em Will!" Will glanced back again, this time meeting Watson's eyes, and it sent a fast chill down the back of his neck that felt quite ominous.

"'Eh, I see 'em. But don't go getting' any ideas, Tom." Tom's eyes widened in surprised.

"N-no idea? What are you, loony? You're not seein' what I'm getting' at 'ere!"

"No, I see exactly wot' you're getting' at 'ere, and it's bonkers. Do ya see his eyes' Tom? It's...it's like there ain't anyone behind 'em!" Tom only huffed out his chest more at his friend's observation.

"Perfect," Tom responded, rolling his 'r' with a hint of an Irish mischievousness about it, "He's mad. 'robably one of those drunks. He's a prime time _customer_."

William backed down. "I ain't jumpin' him Tom." Tom's eyes flashed to his friend's, and then to Watson, who was currently coughing up a lung; bent over in pain.

"What the 'ell mate? You can't be serious- just look at 'em!"

"I see 'em Tom, and I ain't doing it! I just...I can't." Will shifted around, and began walking the opposite way- but Tom caught his arm, and pulled him back.

"Mate, I swears you ain't seein' what I am. Just look at 'em! He looks rather fancy type, eh? Lil' dignified?" Will glanced over his shoulder nervously.

"I think you're just mistaken' his mustache."

"No- no I ain't! I bet he's someone _special_, you know? And I bet he 'as a pocket watch on him! Somethin' shiny, or golden. Don't you wanna eat again, Will? It's been what, four days?"

William stiffened in his tracks, pressing his arms down to his skinny body. "I...I don't like eatin' if it means takin' from people, Tom." His stubborn friend simply shook his arm, and then let go, pacing quickly towards Watson.

" 'ine! Whatever! _Starve_; I don't 'are! I'll get food me-self!"

William huffed himself, and took a few steps in the opposite direction when he heard a loud, 'Grawh!' and turned back to see his friend suddenly tripped up, and pinned by the furious looking mad-man. Shock rocked his fragile body, and he stumbled the distance, only to find that within himself he knew he couldn't possibly do anything to help his friend now. The man was much older and stronger looking than himself- even if he _had_ decent body weight and nutrition.

William simply raised his arms up as he approached, yelling for Watson to stop, but it appeared the doctor just couldn't hear him, and within seconds, William watched this crazy man wrap his hands about Tom's throat and choke him unconscious. William suddenly screamed incredibly loud, and within moments many friendly thieves came running from the roof tops and other alley ways to provide aid- all ignoring Will's pleadings of backing off for now. Will sensed it right when he locked eyes with this loon- he was _dangerous_.

_Watson's mind..._

Watson was nearly back to camp, losing his balance more and more as random rocks kept tripping him up. He found it so much harder to move without his cane, (a thought he gritted his teeth at,) and he dropped into the dirt, making his way through the crowded rows of meshed together tents. With the desperately hot, and starry sky shining down upon him, Watson still found it incredibly hard to make out which tent was his in the faded light. And when it finally came down to it; Watson had to start _guessing_.

_Alright old boy…you can do this...you can_- Watson braced himself slowly against a tent's entrance…suddenly Watson heard voices fast approaching, and he leapt in, knocking right into a sleeping solider! The man jumped awake, and scrambled for his gun, but Watson already had him pinned, and slowly choked the man until he was unconscious, (whilst trying to coax the man's utter terror of death with, '_relax, I'm a doctor'_.) Watson then breathed a sigh of relief and turned to leave, until his compassion got to him and he quickly turned to check the soldier's pulse. It beat in a natural and steady sleep-like pace. Watson continued like that through _many_ different tents, and continued moving on… until suddenly, things took a turn for the worse…

_Let's See How Holmes Is Doing…_

After blocks of walking and completely drenched in rain, Holmes was beginning to think that he may in fact, need more help than he originally thought. Suddenly he noticed a familiar face in the crowd, and greeted Inspector G. Lestrade.

"Inspector! Greetings on such a dreadful day. You, er, haven't happened to see Watson running around have you?"

The Inspector looked taken aback, but smiled anyways. "Why if it isn't Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Hullo! Terrible day, indeed. Doctor Watson...? Why I don't think I've-" Holmes saw it coming long before the Inspector had even finished saying his greetings- Watson moving amongst the ever slickening streets- and his blue, unseeing eyes focusing on one thing- _Lestrade_.

_Boom!_ A loud gunshot cut off the Inspector, whom by now had been pulled behind a moving horse carriage with the cunning detective.

"Holmes? What the _devil_ is going on?" Holmes continued moving the policeman forward as the horse moved on at a more surprised, rapid pace.

"Believe me, Inspector, if I'd the time to explain it to you, I would! But I'm afraid that- _GET DOWN_"- both the men dropped to the stone road and various screams were heard amongst the thunder and gunfire, of people exiting the streets in tizzies. The abruptly confused Inspector turned to the Cheshire-catly grinning detective (who was very much now in complete, and utter _glee_ at finding his ill boswell unharmed!). "I'm afraid that not even _I_ know what is exactly going on."

"Well if that's the case," Lestrade said, motioning for his handgun, "then I've no reason not to shoot this mad-" Holmes quickly jumped at the officer's attempt, and pulled the gun away.

"No! No!"

"No?" Lestrade looked incredibly shocked. "But Mister Holmes, whomever is shooting-" Suddenly several more gunshots smashed into the horse carriage that the two men were hiding behind, and the Inspector poked his head out just far enough to see-

"Is that _Watson_ firing at us?" Holmes got to his feet- pulling Lestrade up as well, and nervously tapped his tongue amongst his teeth while they ran for more cover.

"More or less, if it's all the same to you!" Holmes explained breathlessly.

"Damn it Holmes! I swear, you two need to find better ways of resolving your differences!" Holmes laughed bitterly as he managed to shove the Inspector into an alleyway- but not before the ever avenging Watson saw what Holmes was doing, and pointed the gun square at Lestrade, and yelling: "I won't let you kill anymore men, _General_!"

Luckily, Holmes and the Inspector made it before the bullets hit- and the Inspector stopped dead in his tracks turning to Holmes.

"Holmes, who the bloody hell is the '_General_'?" Holmes quickly turned his head to glance behind them and slightly jumped when he heard more gunfire.

"Apparently," the masterful detective concluded vastly- "You." The Inspector rolled his eyes, and refused to move any further to Holmes' urgings.

"And knowing this, what do you suggest we do- seeing as you seem to have everything figured out so easily."

"You," Holmes said, maneuvering himself upon a crate and stepping onto the roof tops, high above the alleyway. "Should probably get away from Watson." More gunshots were heard along with Watson's heavy breathing- and this alarmed Lestrade. "Rather quickly, I suggest!"

Lestrade threw up his arms in alarm, "And what about you? What the hell are you doing up there?"

Holmes looked down nonchalantly from the building's roof- "Me? What the dunce- what does it _look_ like I'm doing? I'm going to stop Watson of course!" The Inspector cursed and spat amongst the dirty alleyway before taking off on foot-

"Dammit Holmes! You better have a good explanation for all this ridiculousness!"

Holmes counted swiftly in his mind- _2, 3, 5, 9, 18- feet ahead_- and quickly shut out all the mad noise of the pounding rain and streaking lighting. Time seemed to all but stop as the _wooshing_ of the wind finally ceased. Then, he listened for only Watson's footsteps- and right on his clever cue, Holmes leapt out, taking Watson down to the alleyway floor in ultimate surprise!

Holmes hit the ground first, but was then eye to eye with Watson. In shock, Watson swayed as he pulled himself back up, but then yelled, madly swinging his pistol around. Holmes ducked, and rolled swiftly to his feet, his mind already analyzing-

_His heart rate is much __too__ fast, dilated eyes, intense sweat, wobbling- no balance, flushed face, fever rising, vocal __chords__ strained-_ Holmes side stepped as Watson swung at him again-_ unable to keep control of his own reality-_ _Sorry old boy_- Holmes quickly deployed a punch to his jaw and then side- trying his best not to strike Watson's chest. But Watson was far more resilient than Holmes could have ever imagined...

_In Watson's mind.._

Apon finding his cane, Watson quickly made for the camp entrance (which was contorting and swaying), but soon saw his worst fear: The General! Taking out his pistol, he did his best to take the General's life there and now- but there was just too much to take cover in. Also to add insult to injury- the noise of the blasting shells had awoken the other men, and it wasn't long before Watson found himself, in the mad, furious pacing of the darkness, running smack into another solider. Of course- it was instantly dark and Watson couldn't see him own hand in front of his face by now in the dead of night- but he could tell by just how swiftly his opponent was attacking he was definitely no friend. Watson swung his cane, but missed in the darkness, and the enemy quickly punched him hard in the face- then side, and Watson struggled to keep control- small sounds of pain slid out, and before he knew it the entire camp ground was aroused, and he could feel the bodies closing in on him, their eyes glinting in the darkness..

Watson kicked as hard as he could, and the man fell hard to the ground his on back, and stared back up at the end of Watson's rifle. Sweating, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Watson's entire hand shook as he held the weapon, but he couldn't bring himself to fire- seeing too much of James' resemblance in the man's shadowed face. Watson could see the other camp members turning to him now, and everything was in slow motion, and silent...staring down into man's eyes and the sheer terror filling his every fiber. Suddenly a thunderous noise struck the sky, and wetness poured down, like blood. Terrified, Watson dropped his gun...and _ran_, heading deeper into camp. And towards the fleeing General.

_Holmes' View..._

Holmes' stared desperately into the barrel of Watson's pistol, and then upon their eyes meeting, Watson suddenly dropped his gun and ran. Holmes quickly jumped up, and sprinted after his friend, twisting down an alley way and cutting him off after several slippery blocks. Thunder cracked the sky as Watson jumped between couples and shoved people aside, and Holmes had a vague idea of where he was going- and where Lestrade was leading them. Heading finally back towards Baker Street- both of the men huffing, and puffing, and their lungs burning for air, Holmes jumped out from his hidden alleyways and threw his arms out, slamming into Watson's chest-

_Watson's View.._

Suddenly Watson saw him in a flash of lightening, rain dripping down his face- and that name jumped once more to his lips- _like some far off memory. Some scattered dream_...the mysterious solider that he had played poker with. The solider with dark eyes reached out to him, pushing him back, and Watson stumbled back, running towards a tent- just as he saw the General himself escape into it. He suddenly recognized it. _The General's Tent!_ -_Never again!_ Watson vowed. _I can't let the General get to you! Never again! I'll never let the General kill any more of my friends! _Watson took a huge breath, and entered the tent, using the gun he had picked up from the previous solider he had knocked out, his cane at his side...

_Holmes' view..._

Holmes heart stopped in his chest as Watson ran to their door at 211B Baker Street, kicking it in, in the process. Holmes threw out his arm. He was hoping that the Inspector's closing of it would give Holmes enough time to restrain the doctor. "_Watson_! _No_!"

Holmes ran after his dangerous friend, twisting through the darkness of the house, noticing how clean it entirely was- (probably what Mrs. Hudson does with herself when she's anxious), his mind racing- _He's going to kill L_estrade_!_


	9. Chapter Nine

**~*The Chapter Where Gladstone Trips Everyone Again!*~**

Lestrade stumbled through the dark house first, twisting himself around the stair banister, his brown eyes flickering between the cracks of rain sliced light breaking through the blocked windows, as he desperately made his way up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. _Madness_, he remarked to himself, tripping again on dense furry mass- just nearly skidding off his balance- _Utter madness_!

Quite unsure of exactly _where_ he was supposed to go to escape Watson, and cursing Holmes to bloody hell with _every _fiber of his being, Lestrade sprinted down the flat B's hallway, trying every door only to find it locked. _I threw the door closed- so that should grant me some time. _He thought furiously. The officer looked right- then left, as suddenly he heard voices. But not just any voices- _woman_ voices!

_Women?_ Lestrade thought, pressing his ear against the last door at the back of the hallway from whence he had heard the sounds, _How __peculiar__- I can't imagine those two keeping women- and in their bedrooms for Heaven's sake! They always seemed a little-_

Suddenly Lestrade stopped mid-thought, listening very, very carefully as the brass handle of the door clicked, and the soft whispering died away into the rolling thunder outside. The door was then pulled open from the inside, and Lestrade- standing with most of his weight pressed against the outside door, stumbled inside the shadowed room, fanning out on the rug of the floor. Not thinking about it otherwise, Lestrade tried to get to his feet- only to be bombarded around the neck and head with a very heavy object. Alarmed; he made a noise of utter protest, but the blows just kept coming!

"Stop! _STOP_! I- am- a grand inspector of Scotland Yard!-" he managed out," I- would never- hurt you!-" Suddenly the attack ceased, and Lestrade got a good look at his offender. A very beautiful woman with an impish looked on her delicate face and a large vase clutched in her hands.

"Why, Miss Gladstone," the Inspector huffed out, fixing his hat. "It's been a while since- well since I've seen you, love- somehow I'm not surprised that _you_ ended up in the home of Mr. Holmes." Natalie immediately corrected her features to a scowl.

"It's _Mrs_. Gladstone, Inspector- and I dare say it has." Her pale fingers pressed against the smooth vase tighter. Lestrade bent over, his hands on his knees, catching his breath. He waved his hand dismissively as the minx like lady became even angrier. "Mr. Holmes has prepared to help me find my-"

"Yes, yes-, _I know_-you've come to us hundreds of times over the years with your stories. Miss Gladstone, when are you finally going to admit that your husband is dead and buried-" Natalie let out a soft growl, and raised the vase above her hand, but thankfully for the stubborn Lestrade's sake, Mrs. Hudson cut in, grasping Natalie's wrists and guiding her to the back of Watson's bedroom.

"_This is not the time!"_ The landlady snapped, taking the vase from Natalie and putting it back on a stand. In the shadows of the room, even Lestrade could nearly feel the tension of the landlady, and could make out the look of her disheveledness- her wiry hair, her sorrow-filled eyes. Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together as she spoke. "Mr. Lestrade, _please_ tell me that you're here because Mr. Holmes found Mr. Watson?"

Lestrade's brows furrowed in angry confusion. "Found him? Doctor Watson's trying to kill me as we speak!" He turned to Natalie, fuming in the corner. "Is- is that why you were armed Miss Gladstone?"

"It's _Mrs_. Gladstone," Natalie answered bitterly, crossing her arms and turning her back to Lestrade. "And you could suppose that, yes_." Or that I've just been wanting to do that to you for a __very__ long time!_ Natalie thought. Suddenly the group heard a loud crashing of forcefully opened doors, and yelling voices.

Lestrade took action. "That's them- Watson's coming, ladies, please take behind me." The Inspector moved to the back of the room as well. "I don't know what the bloody hell's going on, but I won't stand for it!" He spread his arms out wide, covering the women.

_Holmes' Perspective…_

"Stop! Watson! Stop! _Stop_!" Holmes yelled, doing his best to keep up with the quickly maneuvering doctor. It was so dark in the house, Holmes could nearly only tell where he was based on utter sent and memorization. Watson's heavy panting alerted him in the doctor's direction for the stairs, and Holmes made his way towards it, watching futilely as his dark eyes took in Watson's form taking the stairs unbelievably fast. Luckily, to give Holmes a chance to catch up, Watson tripped over Gladstone, sprawling to the floor. Holmes stood in the hallway before Watson, realizing where the ladies and the Inspector had gone.

Holmes knelt down, and gripped the back of Watson's shirt collar, feeling the convolutions of Watson's coughing shaking even up into the detective's arm. Watson brought a hand to cover his mouth, his eyes still unseeing, and once he was finished, he balled up his free hand and pulled himself back up- Holmes heart raced in alarm as he saw Watson's hand covered in blood.

"Watson," Holmes gripped tighter to Watson's shirt, desperately trying to reason with madness. "You- you can't keep going on like this! You're killing-," In such a state, being a trained and skilled soldier, Watson easily broke free, and Holmes could only keep talking as Watson began searching the doors, kicking them in. "All this exertion, dammit, you're killing yourself! You can't-," Holmes took a deep breath, his cold composure gone, his voice hitching_. God dammit Watson!_ Holmes screamed in his mind, and then, to keep himself from unwinding completely, he yelled- "_Please!_"

All was quiet in the hallway, and Watson turned to stare at the breaking detective, and in his own mind he caught flashes of a fireplace, and more beautiful music from a violin. Once more a particular word came to his lips.

"I…can't..." Watson coughed out, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. Holmes' brain went to work_; labored breathing- not enough air, blood, massive convulsing ridiculous sweating, internal bleeding, hiking fever of 105, shaking, no balance, no perception of reality- Oh god, oh god! He's dying. Oh god..._

"I can't…let the General...hurt you anymore." Watson's vision flickered, and he painfully pictured James face. "I can't…he killed James..." Watson closed his eyes. Holmes took advantage, stepping closer, slowly- like one might approach an abused dog.

"No…no he didn't old boy." Holmes said very slowly, nervously swallowing. "James, James is _alive_. And further more- he's married! He's got a wife." Watson's eyes flew open, and Holmes felt encased in their blue nothingness.

"Impossible…" Watson whispered, coughing again. Holmes came even closer.

"No, not impossible! He is. Her name is Natalie Gladstone- she's here! And she's looking for him. We'll find him Watson, we'll-" Watson's eyes suddenly iced over, and his teeth clenched in raw uncontainable anger.

"WHAT? _Here?_ The General- the General has her!" Watson abruptly turned, straining his body as he kicked in the remaining doors, and Holmes could only follow after him. _I was SO close!_

All eyes were on the bedroom door as it flew opened- groaning on its hinges and smashing back into the wall. Watson stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his blue eyes glinting and unfeeling. Almost immediately he saw the figures of the two women behind the officer. Watson pulled out his gun, and aimed. _Impossible, simply...__impossible__. How could women be here?_

Lestrade pulled his arms slowly up in the air. Watson, all the more infuriated, clicked the trigger of his gun into place, and held it at level to Lestrade's chest. _  
_  
"So then," Watson said, taking a slow, paced step forward, trying to balance. "I see you're so power hungry that you'll not only kill men, but _women_ as well, General?"

Watson's eyes narrowed at the ever-confused police officer. In a futile attempt, Lestrade pressed himself further against the back wall, fumbling with a hand for his handgun. Watson took a step further.

"You _disgust_ me." Hiding it in his coat pocket, Lestrade centered the pistol to hit Watson within the cover of the cloth, but just as he was about to pull the trigger- Natalie stepped in front of him.

Watson gasped, and time seemed to slow down before him. No longer did the maddeningly hot temperature beat him. No longer did thoughts of ultimate revenge consume him- it was just he, and this shadow of a woman, whose body was subtlety framed in slips of sunlight. Natalie lit a match, holding it up to her face, covering the distance between her and Watson carefully. Her pale fingers trembling. Instant flashbacks filled Watson's mind of James lilting a match so Watson could see his beloved locket picture- and there, in the small, flickering flame, come to life before him; was Natalie Gladstone- even more lovely in real life than framed.

"Im...impossible..." Watson fought for words. Natalie breathed softly in front of him, her dark, deep eyes searching his worn and dirty body. Watson suddenly felt completely self-conscious once more, and had a haunted feeling of déjà vu from somewhere before...

Natalie couldn't believe her eyes. She had found him. _Finally._ _Finally_- there was _hope_. And it all came down to this one moment- _years, years_- and she _finally_ could see her beloved James again. She swallowed softly, and slowly extended a shaking pale hand to Watson. Watson's eyes widened, and he took the seemingly ghost like woman's hand in his- his thoughts slowing down, becoming numb. Her hand was soft and cold in Watson's hot, sweating grip and he couldn't believe she was real, but the ghost opened her beautiful lips and spoke softly to him.

"My name is Natalie; Natalie Gladstone. I am married to a man that you may possible know." She blew out the match and dropped it to the floor. In the darkness she used her other hand and guided one of Watson's fingers onto her wedding band. She bowed her head, unable to keep her voice steady.

"I…I…need your help, sir. Please. Please help me." She clutched Watson's fingers. Watson gently furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He coughed roughly.

"I...I don't know _how_ I can help you now, Mrs. Gladstone..." Watson replied miserably- thinking of the beautiful widowed bride. Natalie pulled her haunting gaze to Watson's fragile blue eyes. She slowly traced a thin finger along Watson's chest, reaching for his collar.

"There," her lips trembled. "…is one way…but it is not for sure...I…may...be...mistaken…" Watson searched his mind for a way to reassure her. He hated to see the woman so upset. "I have been mislead before…I don't know if I can face that…again.."

"I hope," Watson coughed out softly, squeezing her hand. "That if I am able- I can help you find the strength to try again." He breathed in painfully. "I know…James would have…never given up either."

Natalie stared as a single drop of scarlet coloured blood trickled down Watson's chin and onto her dress.

"May...I...?" she whispered. Watson slowly nodded.

Reaching down gently through Watson's shirt, Natalie's hands touched a small, smooth object, and she slowly slid out the necklace from around Watson's neck. She ran her fingers around it gently, folding it in her palm, entirely speechless- save for the soft sobs rocking her body. She slowly opened the gold trinket- and a much younger Natalie stared up at her. Her tears spilled onto the rusted gold, making it sparkle minutely in the moving shadows.

Suddenly Lestrade broke the stillness around them by moving, which caused Watson to flinch and Watson's gun glimmered in the light. Thoroughly alarmed, Lestrade took action as only he was trained to do, and leaped at Watson, striking him extremely hard in the chest. Watson's pupils turned to pin points.

"_No!_" Holmes cried, running forward. Watson coughed painfully, blood spewing into the air, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, as he sank to his knees. Mrs. Hudson screamed and Holmes pushed everyone out of the way, sinking to his knees beside Watson.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," Holmes muttered to himself in a half-crazed mantra. He ripped open Watson's shirt, listening for a heart beat. It was still here, faintly, echoing, and blood now ran freely from Watson's mouth. His eyes were open, but their blue was fading, fading- and then they fluttered closed.

"_God dammit_!" Holmes screamed through his gritted teeth; his eyes blazing as he twisted himself protectively around Watson. "You have your bloody necklace woman! Now hurry, use whatever damn money you've got! Lestrade; I demand you single this as an ultimate emergency and bring here the best damn doctor you can find! If Watson _dies._.." Holmes gritted his teeth so hard that the pressure was making his jaw feel like it was breaking. "Go! _NOW!"_

Racing out the door, Mrs. Gladstone and Lestrade went, leaving only Mrs. Hudson and Holmes alone with the shallowly breathing Watson. Holmes leaned over Watson, pressing one of his hands into Watson's neck, counting out his heartbeat- which was getting slower...and slower. Mrs. Hudson knelt down, bringing pillows to position Watson's head so he wouldn't drown in his own blood. She then looked at Holmes, and could feel her heart split in two as she saw the tears streaming down the stone cold detective's face in the flickering shadows, as he silently cried over his companion. She slowly wrapped one arm around Holmes' shoulders- and in the doorway, Gladstone lay, his head down, and his soft whimpers unheard above the unending storm…

Watson's mind…

Watson opened his eyes to the abandoned tent, feeling worn, and wet. He groaned, twisting himself up. Everything hurt, everything was burning hot, and everything was wet-he couldn't escape it. Rubbing his injured leg, he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane.

_The…General…_Watson thought slowly, his thoughts speeding up, and then he finally came about himself, adrenaline pumping fast through him. He exited the tent, and all around him the grounds seemed to shake and stir. Men ran and fled past him rapidly, yelling and crying. Watson felt so entirely helpless in the mass- _All these men_, he thought desperately, _they'll die if their heart rate stays elated for so long…_

"We're under attack! Go! Go! We're under attack! They're coming! They're coming!" Watson's eyes widened, and he reached out and grasped a young man running past him, that only shook him off and screamed, "We'll deal with you later, _murderer_!" Then he disappeared. Watson moved with the masses, that were pulling on packs and guns- and catching someone off guard, Watson caught wind of where the General had fled.

"He's at the river tower, keeping track of enemy moment! And don't you dare go about trying to stop us- you sorry excuse for a doctor! We _all_ saw the General take the pills just like everyone else damn it! So shut up!" a solider yelled, shouldering passed Watson. Something in Watson's mind suddenly snapped into place. _Antidote. There's no way the General would do such a thing without it- I can save these men yet!_

_He's heading to the river front look out tower_, Watson thought, running through the brush, dodging on coming fire- not knowing if it was a teammate trying kill him or if it was an enemy. He looked to the sky as he ran, and saw it was nothing but empty, perpetual blackness. Night had fallen on his world, and it seemed to suffocate him so much, that when he finally looked back to where he was going, he was gasping.

When he made it half way to river, a horrible site caught his eyes. He sprinted passed camp mates that were suddenly frothing at the mouth, and keeling over in pain in the field- soft moaning seemed to whisper in the humid, wet, wind and poisoned men suddenly reached for him, their eyes wide with relocation and fear. Closing his eyes in terror, Watson didn't open them again until his pants legs were soaked with river water and he made his way across into the tower.

He pulled out his gun, fingering the trigger as he slowly took the creaking steps into the upper platform. The wooden steps seemed to give way after months of humidity and rushing water, and splinters dug in Watson's back as he pressed himself along the stairway's wall. He breathed harshly, and once he reached the door, placed his foot upon it, and braced himself…

_This is for James!_

Watson kicked open the door, rolled inside- only to find no one was occupying it. Taken aback, Watson lowered his gun, but then he felt the familiar press of a gun's barrel into his back. The General's yellow teeth slimily shined in the reflection of Watson's gun as he spoke:

"So…you found me. You really _do_ love playing hero, don't you boy?" Watson swallowed- though unafraid. In fact- it took all he had to not let his repulsion and anger shake his weapon.

"_I hate you!"_ Watson yelled, wishing he could twist around and beat the General to death.

"'_Hate_' is such a strong word, don't you think, _doc_?" The General's teeth clicked sarcastically once more. "I mean...we go to war because we _hate_ other people...or their actions…we kill, because we _hate_…"

"Shut up!" Watson glowered, trying his best to turn his face enough to narrow his eyes at the General. "_Why?_ Why did you do it?"

"You'll have to be a little more specific, Watson." The General chuckled darkly, and he pulled the gun's barrel from Watson's back, tracing it around the good doctor's body so that it was simply at his chest.

"Why…" Watson glared, his blue eyes like a tsunami, flooding the General's green field gaze. "Did you kill James?"

The General chuckled again, "Ah, so this is the part to where I revel all my evil schemes, and you, being the _hero_ of our little play, will somehow within that moment, thwart me? You are much too cliché, Watson."

Watson gritted his teeth. "This isn't some stupid children's story. If I am to die, I want my last request to be the answer to my question of why you killed my…my..."

"Your- your- your _what_?" The General raised his eyebrows, his facial expression rearranging into mock sympathy. "Awww, did you really get that attached to him, doc? I read your file, you know. An only child. Boo-hoo, so very sad…and now you've come to think of little Gladstone as _your_ little brother."

Watson slowly closed his eyes, and he flexed his fist, digging his nails into the barrel of his gun. "And look," the General said, grasping Watson's cane and trying to pull it out of Watson's grasp- but Watson held on for dear life.

"Don't…you…_dare_." Watson growled- but the General continued on regardless.

"How sweet- James even made you a little walking stick for your," the General eyed his leg, "battle scar." He laughed, and suddenly forced Watson's cane back and smashed it into his injury. Watson bit his tongue in refusal to cry out in pain.

"It was all in vain though, Watson- you see, James already _has_ an older brother." He snickered, "an older brother that wants you _dead_- at that. Bad family relationships- they never end well."

"_Why did you kill James?"_ Watson ordered again, tried of the General's games. The General laughed again- this time proud and full of amusement.

"Alright- I'll let you in on my little…_secret_, since you're going to be dead soon anyways..." The General's emerald eyes flashed, and he took slow, even paces to the back of the tower, continuously pointing his gun at Watson. "You see…I just had to kill James. The Gladstone's are filthy _rich_."

"That can't be," Watson countered, "James told me he lived on a poor farm. They have _no_ money!"

"Oh, Watson." The General smiled, "That's not the entire story. You see, I've spent the months that we've been here becoming very close friends with Walter; James' _real_ older brother- and it just so happens that their family has quite the hidden fortune. But you see they couldn't get access to it. The reason Walter joined the war is because, when Walter turned 18, he discovered a will his father had left for him and James, but when he took it to bank, they demanded military statement for it. Apparently their father was quite the known solider- but he died at war, and left his sickly broken widow to take care of his children. Obviously, she didn't make it- and someone had to protect all that money for so many years; all those frauds and whatnots. So the military needed someone willing to prove himself for it. And that's just what Walter came here to do."

Watson shook his head. "I can't _believe..._so, all you wanted was that money? James had to _die _because of some _bank insurance_?"

General then shook his head knowingly, "No…no, not at _first _anyway. It's a rule of thumb that Walter, being eldest, would inherit such an extreme finance first. But he _loved_ his dear little brother far too much. And with his brother's reading…_disability_, he knew he couldn't spare James. So he was planning to split the massive vault with him."

"As it rightly should have been!" Watson gritted out, "You have no _idea_ what he had to live like as a child! He had to work in a horse's stable! He deserved-"

The General only laughed, and laughed, soon drowning out Watson's remarks.

"So noble, Watson. But you see far too much into the black and white. Once I knew what Walter was planning to do, I saw between the lines, and I realized…I could be rich as well. For…not only, would I be the brave, honorable General that will save his life once Walter befalls to that horrible sickness," _The poison!_ Watson thought. "But I would also be the man that would help him _avenge_ his little brother's death!" The General's eyes glowed with greed.

"And you played that part so nicely- in fact, I'll have to really _thank_ you for it Watson. You played quite a good enemy to Walter from the beginning. You were so easy to frame. And now that James is gone- and once Walter seeks closure by killing you- he'll split the fortunate with _me_."

"A-and you killed not only James, but _all_ those other innocent, unknowing men, just for money? Just for-" The General nodded.

"But of course. As I mentioned before, the military trust banking will only bestow such acceptance into the Gladstone family bloodline with greatness attached to my name. With great _honor_- and I figured- coming back as one of the few men surviving and yet still wining such a harsh battle here- is honorable enough."

"You're the most _dishonorable_ man I know!" Watson spat at the General, his eyes livid. The General smiled. "All those men…dying…and James.." Watson bowed his head.

"Moral ambiguities." The General laughed. "They make history what it is, my lad. Sorry to say- it's hard to say who's ever the hero. But I suppose _you'll_ always know." The General winked.

"The antidote!" Watson yelled, "I know you have it! Where are you keeping it?"

The General only smirked, and pulled a bottle from his pocket, and placed it on the floor at his feet.

"Come and get it then, lad." The General raised his gun, and fingered the trigger. Suddenly another man ran in from the water tower's doorway, a gun raised and ready to fire. Walter.

"Just as you promised, eh, General?" The General only laughed, and placed a hand on Walter's shoulder.

"Of course, Walter. I promise I'd track down this heartless murderer so you could kill him yourself. I know it means so much to you." Walter merely nodded, his blue eyes freezing over and meeting Watson- who was so shocked, he could barely speak.

"I hope you go to _Hell_, John Watson." Walter gritted out, pressing his finger to the gun's trigger. "So that when I get there one day, I can kill you over and over then, too."

Watson quickly scrambled for his gun, but Walter fired at his feet, and Watson stepped backwards.

"Go to the window." Watson complied, and he stared out into the rushing waters below. Watson's mind was utterly blank.

Watson then turned back to face Walter, and Walter held up his gun.

"This is for you, James!" Walter fired, and suddenly Watson screamed out in pain, as his shoulder was set aflame, a rich wetness pouring through his chest. Random flashes of lights met his eyes, and the blast pushed Watson nearly through the window except something stopped him, and Watson heard a voice he thought he never hear again in his entire life:

"I've got you, _Doc_." Watson slowly turned his head, and met James' scratched and dirtied face- his dark hair matted and wetly plastered to his face, as James pushing him back with his hands as he held on the window's ledge. _James!_ Watson opened his mouth, but all that came out was bits of blood, and stuttering.

"F-f-unny- I thought when I died there'd be so much m-more pain…"

"You're- you're not dead, Doc." James said, his light blue eyes widening at Watson's new wound, pulling himself up. "At least...not yet!" He tore off his sleeve to tightly wrap Watson's profusely bleeding shoulder. James leaned Watson against the tower's wall, and then grinned his boyish grin. "Ha, familiar situation...huh? Don't worry…I won't let _you_ die." James winked.

The General was in complete shock- like some personal demon was just sprung up from his own personal hell.

James slowly stood up, and pulled Watson's gun from his limp hands and then turned to face Walter.

"J-j-james? JAMES? _JAMES_!" Walter suddenly burst out into tears, and ran towards his brother. "My God! I- I thought- but how can that be- YOU!" Walter twisted back towards the General in utter repulsion. Suddenly about himself, the General took action, and James looked on in horror as the General took aim at Walter, and _fired_. James sprinted towards his brother, and grasped Walter as his body hit the ground, fresh tears still rolling down, as life was leaving his eyes.

Watson's sight was fading, everything was becoming watery, and misty, the pain less intense in his shoulder. Watson could see the General fleeing. _I'm losing too much blood..._ Watson strained to keep aware, and he could only make out the last murmuring of Walter to James. Watson could see the tears freely falling down each brother's face, until finally…James closed Walter's eyes for good. James then cradled his brother's body as he cried.

Watson, too weak to remain upright, leaned over and laid upon the floor, the warmth leaving his body. Still weeping, James suddenly took noticed and crawled over to Watson, asking what to do.

"I-I heard it _all_. All of that bastard's p-p-lans. Oh God...oh God. _Why?_" James wept, binding up Watson's shoulder tighter, and tighter. "I'm s-s-o sorry, I'm so-so sorry..." James continued crying, and Watson could only hug James to him as he cried, though he was losing all feeling of his body.

"N-no, I'm the one who's sorry," Watson whispered, running his fingers through the lad's hair. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him…I'm so sorry…" James sniffled, and suddenly stopped crying, pulling away from Watson.

"No. You did everything you could. Thank you. Thank you…t-thank you...I'm just so sorry for the all damage… it's caused…"

Watson laughed hoarsely, tussling the boy's hair once more. "Lad...it's like…I told you before, what matters isn't the wound…but the whole. And you're safe…that's what matters…" Watson slurred off a little from loss of blood, and James suddenly leapt up.

"I'm so sorry Doc! I'll go get help! I'll go get help! I'm so sorry!" James made for the door, but Watson reached out his hand and his chest twisted in agony.

"Wait...James, wait…," Watson coughed, his world going dark, and he felt it harder and harder to breath, like he was being submerged underwater…"The antidote…give it to all the men you can find…_please_."

"Of course, doc…" James said, sprinting over and picking up the pill bottle. "Anything you say…" and with that James was gone…and Watson blinked, only once, closed, found he couldn't open his eyes once more…and he let himself sink to the bottom of an ocean of pain…


	10. Chapter Ten

**~*The Chapter Where The Doctor Is In*~**

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called through the door, muffled by the thick wooden plates and the many, many pillows Sherlock Holmes had shoved over his head and all around him. All across his room, piles of books, newspapers, wrinkled clothes, and shoes had been thrown about. It had been three days since Watson had been home from the hospital, and Holmes had been dealing with the results in his..._own _way.

_God, I don't know how Mr. Watson dealt with his little 'depressive stages'_, Mrs. Hudson thought to herself, with an angry huff. She tapped on the door with her thin knuckle, and then slowly twisted the handle of the oak door. Stepping inside, she found Holmes' room, per usual, an utter enigmatic disaster- but it seemed more hectic than need be. Her hands flying to her hips, Mrs. Hudson scrutinized the piles upon piles of messes, until she found the one she needed.

"Mr. Holmes, I've brought you your meals three times a day for the pass few days, and I am on my last nerve here of simply letting you _starve_! It would be another matter entirely if you'd have even taken just one step beyond this door, but you've yet to move!"

The landlady quickly did a gruelingly practiced dance movement around the room of picking up filthy rubbish that would have made a ballet dancer blush- and when she found that her speech had yet to make the lump in the bed move- she tried once more.

Making her way towards the bed, stepping carefully over the tossed books and late post- screws, hammers, magnifying glasses, and bottles half-empty of God knows _what_-

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said, standing before the great lump. "You know I have great…_respect_." The word slid out weirdly from between her lips, "For you, as a detective and whatnot, but really, this is just downright _pathetic_ of you. He's your friend, and we're very lucky that he's still with us after all that commotion! We're also incredibly blessed that that lovely young lady was indeed willing to pay for Watson's surgery and house calls."

The lump had yet to move, and so, Mrs. Hudson, a bizarre moment of pity striking her common furiousness with the recluse, sat gently upon the edge of the bed and reached out, placing a hand on the soft quilt.

"Mr. Holmes, dear, please don't blame yourself for Mr. Watson's pain. It's been none of your fault- at all! In fact, you probably saved his life! I'm sure once he wakes, he'll thank you-"

"Mrs. Hudson..." a voice said quietly, causing Mrs. Hudson to twist around with alarm; for it did _not _come from the mass in front of her, but far off in the corner of the room, where the shadows were most dark. "That's very...kind," Holmes tripped over the word here, his voice far off and rather dreary. "But I've decided he shan't to know what became of him during his illness."

_What?_ Mrs. Hudson's mouth dropped open and her eyes narrowed into the shadows.

"Mr. Holmes, how could you say such a thing? Regardless of _your_ feelings towards the mess, Mr. Watson has a right to know! The poor man's been _operated_ on for pity's sake-"

"_Pity_, has nothing to do with it, Nanny. You saw it better than the rest of us- how entirely ill Watson was. I've concluded that telling him of his running madly through the streets and nearly killing the Inspector will only lead to more stress than he should bare at the moment."

"So then, you'll tell him, eventually?" She tested. She heard a soft sigh come from the shadowed corner and in the glint of the cracking light she saw the shine of a needle. Fury ripping at her heart again, Mrs. Hudson grinded her teeth, and made her way rapidly over to where Holmes sat, her eyes scanning for only one particular area. She quickly snatched the needle out of Holmes' vein, running a light shade of green through his pale skin, and snapped it in two between her fingers.

"Mr. Holmes," she gritted out slowly, waiting for Holmes' bloodshot and cloudy, dilated dark eyes to set themselves on hers', "This is _pathetic_." She held out the pieces of the thin needle. "Watson needs to know what happened to him. Now- I'm not going to be the one to tell him- it's all you, Mr. Holmes. But you can't hide this from him forever-"

"Yes, in fact, Mrs. Hudson- I believe I can. Even with the surgery-" Holmes responded rapidly.

Mrs. Hudson had had enough. "There'll be a _scar_, Mr. Holmes! You're trying to tell me he won't ask about that?"

"Watson has plenty of scars on him," Holmes concluded bristly, "I doubt he'll notice one more-but that's beside the point. There's not a scar on him from the operation." Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened.

"_No scar_- how would you know? You haven't been out of this room since he returned! And he's been _asleep_ the entire time! It's not like you have to face him-" Something made Mrs. Hudson stop, and she slowly took in the ragged form of the detective once over.

"Mm, so that's what this is about then?" She dropped the pieces of the needle to the floor. "You're too scared to face him." Holmes pulled his knees to his chest, his eyes shifting restlessly.

Mrs. Hudson's hands were placed back on her hips, and she stalked towards the door of the messy room, nearly tripping over Gladstone- who had nuzzled himself in a pile of Holmes' shoes.

"Regardless, I've had enough games out of you, Mr. Holmes. Since you've been hiding in here scared, _I've _been taking care of Mr. Watson." She paused a moment, waiting to see if Holmes would already conclude what she would say next- but he remained twitchy, yet unresponsive.

"Which means...I need to get out of this house for a few hours. It's just beautiful outside, now that that horrible rain storm has finally let up." Holmes simply grunted, and stiffly got to his feet, grabbing the nearest book and flipping it open.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said sternly where she was standing. "I know you've been doing every single possible thing in your power to stop yourself from leaving this room, but the time has come. I'm truly leaving for now. So now I suppose it's up to you whether you're going to leave the weakly recovering doctor in there without someone looking over him." Holmes simply closed the book he was reading with a _snap_, and tossed it to the floor, staring only as its monotonous cover.

Mrs. Hudson only stared at the book upon the floor as well. "I know you said this had nothing to do with _pity_, Mr. Holmes; but I don't think I've been pitying the _right person_ up until now." Holmes simply tossed his head, his dark hair moving in a matted disaster.

"And for God sake, clean yourself up if you're going to see him- you must be _covered_ in dirt. I must say Mr. Holmes, I know this whole week hasn't been kind to us, but the worst is over now..." Mrs. Hudson quickly scooped up Holmes' slipper; filled with cocaine, from the pile Gladstone was sleeping on, and gave it a once over. "And it's time for you to stop hiding behind all of this nonsense."

She softly shut the door, and left, leaving Holmes to only stare at the book by his feet once more, unblinking. Sighing, he quickly removed his shirt, and wondered around his room glancing here and there for a clean one. He then remembered something. Watson always had clean clothes! Holmes took a deep breath and faced the dark door of his bedroom.

_Come on now, you can do this. He's asleep. He'll stay asleep. It's okay...he won't wake up..._Holmes muttered this to himself over and over as he made slow, quiet steps from his bedroom, and down the hall. Upon reaching Watson's room his heart sped up to an extremely rapid pace. Although Holmes would never admit it- he was _indeed_ terrified to see Watson awake. He _did_, in fact, blame himself for all of Watson's wounds. After all, it was _he_ who had found Mrs. Gladstone, and the necklace. It was _he_ who was unable to stop Lestrade from attacking the suffering doctor. Sherlock Holmes was utterly terrified of what Watson would think of him, once he had awoken.

Unknown to Mrs. Hudson, Holmes actually had left the scanty of his room, but only in the deepest of night- when Holmes anxiety about Watson's condition would finally hit its daily peak. His thoughts would grant him no peace until he could see with his own two eyes that the doctor was still breathing. He had also checked to make sure Watson had no scarring with the surgery, leading to his conclusion of escaping explanation to Watson.

Even so, Holmes had not slept in days long before, and when his eyes no longer had the strength to remain open, and he would slip away, he would have pure, terrifyingly monstrous nightmares of watching Watson slowly dying in his arms. Holmes not only couldn't sleep- he _refused_ to.

Once more, Holmes only could come to Watson's room at night, for he concluded that if Watson ever was awake, he could at best be asleep at night, and the chances of confrontation would be much less likely to occur.

Though, this pattern of stalking Watson's sleeping form in the dead of night had its down points as well. Whenever the drowsy Holmes was sitting in a chair beside Watson's bed, he could be listening intently to Watson's breathing for any sign of distress- any sign at _all_- which often relaxed Holmes worrisome brain, and he'd slowly lean further and further back in his chair, drifting off to sleep...this of course, leading to the problem of Mrs. Hudson's footsteps in the morning stirring the exhausted detective, and he'd awkwardly and stealthy hide about his own home until he could make it back to the safety of his own bed-room.

Holmes let out his air, and opened the door softly, using every ounce of his hearing and deductive skills to make sure Watson had not aroused. Once concluding so, Holmes took a step into the neat room, peering about at the organized shelves and re-framed pictures. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson both had done a rather splendid job of recreating Watson's bedroom using Holmes photographic memory- even piecing together the destroyed desk. Mrs. Hudson did her best to clean and keep the room as cleanly as possible, especially accounting the days when Watson was set to return home from the hospital.

Stepping lightly on the re-sewn rug, Holmes slowly made his way further into the room, stealing one of Watson's clean shirts. He then sat down in the chair he usually occupied during his stakeouts as Watson's night watchmen, and folded his hands together, lacing his fingers, and taking in Watson's sleeping form.

Pale, and looking all the more fragile in the daylight, Watson lay on his back, his breathing deep, and even. Holmes pressed a sly smile into his hand as he realized he could no longer hear any type of hitching or liquid. He thought about moving closer when suddenly fast, bombing images of Watson leaping from the bed in mad delusion and nearly blowing Holmes' brains out hit the detective, and he froze on the spot, sweat suddenly trickling down his neck.

_Y-you're being foolish…_Holmes told himself, realizing his hands were shaking even while being pressed together. _That's over now…Watson won't_- Homes' eyes flew to the wall- and though he and Mrs. Hudson had done their best to clover them up with the pictures- the holes were still there; recounting the past days of many illnesses before. Holmes forced his hands tighter together, commanding himself to stop being such a coward. _Mrs. Hudson must be right…_

Holmes curiously raised an eyebrow at himself. _Well then, never thought I'd say __that__..._

Glancing down at the floor, Holmes noticed a bucket and a few cloths placed tidily about it, hanging over the rim, their white colour like a ghost clinging to the darkness of the wood. Holmes stood with another deep breath.

"Mrs. Hudson is gone, so dammit, remember what she taught you. You can do this. Watson _needs_ you, it's obvious his fever has gone down, but it hasn't broken yet. You...you probably should do this..." Holmes whispered, slowly reaching his own pale hand out as he talked to himself- his skin colour nearly matching the cloth- and dipped it into the bucket, giving it a gentle squeeze with his palm.

Holmes then pulled the cloth back up, feeling the freezing water running down his wrist, then arm. His midnight eyes scanned Watson's and they easily picked up the opaque sweat droplets lining his hollow cheeks, the faint flush of fever still in them.

Then, coldly, cruelly, painfully, (at least to Holmes), he raised his slightly shaking hand over Watson's forehead, his dark eyes steeled to the cloth, and then suddenly his pupils turned to pinpoints of horror! The cloth still retained too much water, and the droplets suddenly pulled together, and hung precariously from the tip of the cloth. Holmes watched in shocked terror as his eyes traced the air path the droplets would take- hearing them splashing down with a deafening _plop_ on Watson's cheek.

_Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!_ Holmes thoughts yelled and bounced off his skull, echoing, and he involuntarily shut his eyes tight, the scene of his best friend attacking him; coupled with blood and the smell of death, flooding his mind.

The single droplet let go, and fell quickly, landing gently on Watson's cheek. Feeling a sight temperature change to his morbidly hot body, Watson tiredly stirred in surprise.

"_Holmes_?" Watson whispered in a horse voice, looking up through one eye at the curiously poised detective. "You look _ridiculous_..." Watson's chuckling soon dissolved into harsh, wet coughing. Holmes abruptly jumped at Watson's soft voice, his eyelids lifting open, the nightmare gone.

"_W-Watson_? Is that..," Holmes scrambled for his voice-"...you?" Holmes carefully leaned over his friend, ready to jump on guard. Watson closed his eye, and painfully cracked open both of them.

"Of...course…it's me...where...the devil...have you...been?" Watson blearily eyed Holmes' debating expression. Sherlock Holmes, the master of four languages, plus the proper British English and conversationalist extraordinaire, was quite unsure just exactly how to explain to the doctor where he'd been for the past couple days. Holmes took a deep breath.

Watson's blue cloudy eyes took in the ceiling, and they flashed closed. "'Wefully...bright...in here...isn't it..?"

Holmes let out his air. "Watson, what day is it?"

Watson slowly looked at the detective, exhaustion blurring his world.

"I...don't know...why..." Watson wheezed, "does...that matter?" He closed his eyes once more.

Alarmed, Holmes quickly patted his friend's cheek. "No- no- no, you don't. Stay with me old boy, now...we're not...er...uh...hurm…we're not...in…Af-" He looked at his sleepy friend, and abruptly stopped. Then tried again.

"We're…in _London_, correct?"

"Well...we could be in _Hell_...I haven't decided yet...it's dreadfully...hot...and bright." Holmes chuckled at the good doctor.

"Watson, I swear if you weren't deliriously ill with fever, I'd say that you just made a joke."

Holmes' smile dropped for a moment. "You...well. You're not going to kill me though, correct?" Watson's brows weakly furrowed for a second in confusion.

"Well...I'll consider it...if you...turn out the lights..." Holmes laughed again.

"Alright, alright, hold on." He pushed himself from the sitting chair and quickly drowned the light of the breaching sun with the curtains around the room. "Better, you old cock?"

"Funny…" Watson said, twisting his sore body to take his own pulse. "You're…the one playing...mother hen…" he coughed again, his body shaking. "...You shouldn't even...be in here..."

"Nonsense." Holmes said quietly, taking his place back in the chair beside the bed, and thinking quickly. "The only people that have been in here since you retired to your bed those nights ago have been Mrs. Hudson and I. And I've only been in here a couple of minutes. I'll leave when your fever finally goes down. "

He slowly rewetted the cloth and placed it once more on Watson's forehead. Watson weakly glared at him for a moment, but then decided against it, and shut his eyes once more, feeling the coldness seep through his burning skin.

"If you say..." Watson mumbled, exhaustion taking him. Delighted at Watson's acceptation of his explanation, Holmes internally celebrated. But then after a long moment, something finally clicked in all of the gears and puzzle pieces in the great detective's brain.

"Watson! Wait…can you hear me...?" Holmes said loudly, waving his hands about from the surprise of the moment, although Watson couldn't possibly see. A few long seconds passed before the quiet, delayed response:

"Mm?"

Holmes sat down again, pulling the chair closer to the bed, and gently wiped more sweat from his friend's flushed face. "I just… wanted to tell you," Holmes carefully worded, his voice dropping in a whisper as he spoke anyway, even though the doctor was most likely asleep.

_"You're a good solider."_


	11. Epilogue

**~*The Chapter Where The End Is Only The Beginning*~**

**Epilogue**

RE-PRINTED FROM THE NOTES OF A DOCTOR JOHN H. WATSON:

March 21st

Whenever I try to reason with myself about how much time has passed, I only find myself more and more confused. It's been only a day since I first came to consciousness, and everything is just a blur of past faces, and pain. I only remember laying down in my bedroom, and the next thing I know _four days_ have passed- or so Holmes tells me. It is incredible to think how the world seemingly turns on and on, even without your own recognition of it. I feel as if I've been all but forgotten in this mess; like a ghost. I tell myself I have enough of those, however. I can't possibly _be_ one- I must be alive enough for apparitions to still want more to do with me.

I've very little strength to do much but hold this pen- which still is quite shaky- in my hand. I find this odd; though, I admit, I am a bit of a nervous person, but I've never been quite so tremulous before. I recall this particular shaking coming from only loss of blood- but yet, I've been here all this time- what blood is there to spill? I've checked my heart rate, and lungs, and the rest of my body, to find everything is still rightfully there and in order. My shoulder is sorer than usual- but luckily the weather has been most grand! It's very nice to simply take the time here and feel the sunshine on my face. Strangely, my leg is more bothersome even whilst I lie here. I've tried to-_Blasted pen_- I think it best I stop writing for now- Holmes seems rather edgy. He is always standing over me as if I'm about to go into cardiac arrest- even more than the worrisome Mrs. Hudson. He's a peculiar man, but even this seems just strange. No matter, I'm rather exhausted, regardless.

March 22nd

I stirred awake today to find the most intricate sight before me. The breaking dawn just barely fading through the dark curtains, I could make out the silhouette of Holmes sitting in the chair beside me, fast asleep. Although rare, I often find him in just such a position, but in his own quarters. I found it rather…_kind_, to see Holmes so dedicatedly protective of my health. It was very humorous to me, seeing the commonly dignified and poised Holmes very unaware of himself. His jaw slightly open, his dark hair tangled about his face- a trace of spittle running along the collar of his shirt. Although still wary myself, I reached out and gently tapped his knee, wanting him to stir and return to his own bed. He'll do terrible damage to his spine if he continues falling asleep that way.

He awoke briefly, his glazed eyes opening and suddenly snapping to mine in the darkness. He looked at me for what I could only count as mere seconds-his dark eyes glancing down my body- I suppose to make sure I wasn't dying for any random reason- and then they slowly shut closed, and I couldn't bring myself to awaken him again. From my own observations, and Mrs. Hudson's informing me of Holmes' utter lack of sleep over my being ill. I contented myself with simply listening to his breathing, my trained inner ear scanning through his vocal passages for any type of strain. Luckily; I could not hear a single thing wrong- which I will re-write once more as _very_ lucky indeed, to find the hazardous Holmes un-inflicted with anything. As his doctor, he always worries me.

March 23st

It's been four days since I've regained my being now, and finally Holmes is letting me walk around a bit more. Recently I had trouble going up and down the stairs, but with a bit more reliance on my cane than usual, I find I can go about anywhere I like within the flat. I just have to pay special care to watch out for Gladstone, but I've missed my bulldog so, and am very content with simply sitting on the couch and throwing a stick or my rugby ball to him. He seems very pleased to have me back, as I am to be back.

Sadly though, even with my rapid recovery from such a horrendous illness of mine, I often push myself too far, and I feel just bloody awful when Holmes comes around and finds me unable to support myself when I try to stand. He often guides me back up the stairs- "You are going to be the _death_ of me, Watson!" says he;- and _he _chides _me_! Such things I thought I'd never hear coming to light before my eyes. All the more, I am grateful to him. Even if he often is the very _bane_ of my existence.

March 24th

I woke up this morning rather weak and much more sore than usual, and found I just couldn't rise from my bed, so I have been laying here for the past hours, watching the sunlight and shadows play a careful game of tag along the walls. The two never touch. My eyes wonder amongst the pictures, and suddenly my tired mind was flooded with memories of a rushing, ice river and the cries of dying men, and a gold necklace clutched in my palm as I ran, and ran, for the very life of me. I suddenly remembered all of my dreams- or at least I believe them to be _dreams_- they felt so _real_. Replays of my very _memory_, really. The ravenous General, hungry for money and power. God, I wonder where that heartless demon hides himself nowadays? And of a mysterious solider…that's so strange. I don't remember meeting such a man during my army days…I do hope he is alright, if he's more than a figment of my own imagination…

Then my lost thoughts came to James. Ahh_, Gladstone_. I haven't thought of that lad in so very long. My heart still cracks when I think of his childlike wonder being shattered at the death of his brother, Walter…I…don't think I was ever able to bring myself to find out what ever became of him. I recall…that whilst I was bleeding out, he ran and revived most of the men along our rank, and we ended up ending the ambush and a while later, winning the war. I know I fell horribly ill with fever, and was literally erased of the addresses of the friends I made. I was erased from the minds of the friends that made me.

I turned my head slightly, and stared at the desk off to the side of the room, and before I knew it, I somehow gathered the strength to rise to my feet and limp over to the desk; searching it's innards for my golden treasure. I was aghast with surprised when I finally held it my hands. It … was still _warm._ As if, after all these many years of me stashing it away, someone had gone about himself or herself to hold it in their hands. Perhaps wear it around their neck, close to their heart.

Hearing the faint noise of Holmes' clever footsteps enter my room, I turned to him, and his eyes lit up with surprise, as if a glorious fortune had just occurred.

"Watson! I see you are up! How are you feeling?" I twisted the faded trinket in my hand, nervously.

"I am doing better, Holmes, thank you." Holmes looked at what was in my hands, and he slowly reached out, running one of his long, nimble fingers along its rusting chain.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I nodded slowly, and then finally opened my mouth to ask Holmes something that I found very hard to think- let alone ask of someone. Something that I had been keeping locked away for a very, _very_ long time.

"Holmes; I…have a favour to ask of you." Holmes glanced my way, his dark eyes fixated to mine.

"This necklace...is very dear to me. And I...would like to ask you, if you would be so willing, to help me with this...mystery- if you will. During my warring days, it was the property of a young lad- James Gladstone-for whom I received the extent of my injuries for."

Holmes stayed very still and quiet, and allowed me to go on.

"I...never found out what happened to the lad. And I was wondering..." I cleared my throat nervously.

"If would use your, masterful, detective skills, and help me track him down..." Holmes interrupted me.

"I am far ahead of you, my dear Watson," said he, turning to me with a rare grin, and we both grabbed the necklace at once, in oath of finding the missing James Gladstone.

**DUN DUN DUNNNNNN…hehe, sorry guys! I'm going to have to leave this story as a mystery! BUT FEAR NOT. For it's **_**sequel**_** will eventually come in time as my writing grows! AND IT WILL BE FULL OF ADVENTURE, MYSTERY, UNREVALINGS, AND EXPLAINING HOW THE HELL THE GENERAL GOT BLUE CONTACTS IN THE 1800'S! **

**WOW! Well, this is it for "When In Hell', hehe, I truly thank each and EVERY ONE of you guys for taking the time to read my very first fanfiction- it means the world. Especially thanks to the three new friends I've made thanks to this writing- Voldemort's Spawn, WhimsicalShmoo, and October Ashes. : D **

**Thanks to everyone once again, and I hope to see you guys in your own story, or a new story of my own, real soon!**


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